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CITY  PASTORALS. 
By   fVilliam   Griffith 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/citypastoralsothOOgrifrich 


City  Pastorals 

and  Other  Poems 


BY 


WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 

Author  of  "Loves  and  Losses  of  Pierrot" 


NEW  YORK 

JAMES  T.  WHITE  &  CO. 

1918 


Credit  is  due  to  McClure'Sj  Smart  Set,  Poetry,  Tkr  Fra, 
Theatre  Magazine,  The  Poetry  Journal,  The  International, 
Current  Opinion,  the  Sun  Dial  editor  of  the  New  York 
Evening  Sun,  to  the  editor  of  The  Bang,  and  to  other 
publications  for  having  published  many  of  these  poems. 


C^^'-^-eijLil^    C-      CXJLa-^ 


COPYRIGHT    BY   JAMES   T,   WHITE   ft   CO. 
1918 


TO  FLORENCE. 


392382 


GUIDE  TO  THE  TITLES. 

Argument   9 

CITY  PASTORALS 

Spring 1 1 

Summer  26 

Autumn 40 

Winter    57 

OUTWARD  BOUND 

At  the  Door 71 

The  Ghostly  Hound 72 

Litany  of  Nations 72 

Hadleyburg 76 

My  Dog    77 

Magdalen   78 

overworld   to   underworld 78 

Underworld  to   Overworld 80 

Enigma 81 

The    Hospital 83 

Encounter    84 

ITINERARY 

Invocation 89 

Stageland  90 

On   Patrol 91 

Derelict    100 

Bumble  Bee 103 

Travel    105 


SEA  SPRAY  AND  WOOD  WINDS 

From  an  Atlantic  Window 109 

Ephemeron    no 

The  Hunt   no 

At  the  Will  of  the  Moon iii 

Oh  !   Not  the  Moon 11 1 

On   Chatham  Beach 1 11 

War  112 

The  Duel 112 

Vigil 112 

A  Character  112 

Oubliette 113 

Love  and  Life 113 

Renunciation 113 

The  Haunted  House 114 

Mors  Omnibus  Communis 114 

Spring  Song 114 

Serenade   114 

Canticle   115 

Autumn   Song 115 

Interlude    116 

Requiescat    116 

FANCY  FIELDS 

The  Making  of  Spring 119 

The  Garden  Cinderella 120 

Envoy    121 

Oak  Lore 122 

Evening  122 

An  Umbel  for  Spring 123 

Apotheosis 123 

The  Sisters    127 

Vale  128 


ARGUMENT. 
Rumor        A  Friend 

Rumor:  So  this  may  be  considered,  in  a  friendly  way 
and  without  beating  about  the  bush,  as  another — an 
American — word  added  to  what  has  already  been  so 
excellently  done  with  the  eclogue? 

Friend:  Yes.  As  the  title  indicates,  it  is  simply  a 
group  of  lyrics  in  dialogue,  flavored  of  the  country,  and 
intended  to  be  more  or  less  appropriate  to  the  four 
seasons. 

Rumor:  Although  done  in  verse,  do  you  think  that 
rhyme  in  dialogue  is  natural? 

Friend:  It  may  be  musical.  The  world,  in  its  infancy, 
lisped  in  numbers — and  verse,  antedating  prose  as  a 
medium  of  auditory  expression,  would  seem  to  be  equally 
natural. 

Rumor:  Exactly.  And  yet  the  book  does  not  seem  to 
offer  any  progressive  gospel,  nor  to  urge  any  specific 
remedies  for  such  evils  as  prevail  and  are  more 
or  less  clearly  indicated. 

Friend:  No.  It  urges  nothing,  save  perhaps  the  gos- 
pel of  striving  to  find  beauty  in  daily  things. 


Rumor:  One  might  say  that  the  author  was  trying 
to  realize  the  poetry  and  philosophy  of  new-world  life? 

Friend:  Yes,  undoubtedly;  but  only  in  so  far  as 
others  who,  with  a  sort  of  desperate  conviction,  hallowing 
beauty  and  truth,  may  realize  the  same  thoughts  and 
share  the  same  outlook.  There  is  no  special  attempt  at 
characterization.  The  three  persons — Broivn,  Gray  and 
Green — are  voices  in  shadow,  so  to  say;  voices  from 
invisible  verandas,  conveying  hints  and  aspirations  and 
memories  of  emotions  and  pulses  that  beat,  and  have 
probably  beaten   forever  through  the  world. 

Rumor:     How  odd — the  names  of  the  characters! 

Friend:     Hardly  so  odd  as  obvious — do  you  think? 

Rumor:  H — m.  The  fatalism  which  Broivn  evan- 
gelizes and  personifies  is  abstract.  A  play  would  seem 
to   be  more   ample  for  the  development  of  the   idea. 

Friend:    Why  attempt  the  impossible? 

Rumor:     Impossible? 

Friend:  Well,  say  a  play  with  no  other  ambition  than 
to  be  a  poem? 

Rumor:    Ah!  I   understand. 

Friend :    Yes  ? 


XO 


SPRING 

Scene.    A  Neiv  York  Club  on  a  side  street. 

Time.     19 14. 

Broivn.     Gray.     Green. 

Broivn,  reading  at  a  table,  lays  doivn  a  daily  paper. 
Gray  has  just  entered  the  room  and  is  seated  near  a 
window.  A  number  of  newspapers  and  periodicals  cover 
the  table.  The  atmosphere  is  heavy  with  the  depressing 
heaviness  of  early  Spring,  the  subtle  bondage  of  the  city 
encouraging  thoughts  and  memories  of  the  country. 
Above  a  confused  murmur  of  voices  from  the  outside 
echoes  the  commerce  of  the  avenue. 

Brown : 
Today,  the  same  as  yesterday, 
The  toiling   sun   goes  west. 
Gray : 
Another  joyous  roundelay 
Awakens  nest  by  nest. 

Once    more   the    clean,    green    April    woods 
Are  brimming  with  the  Spring. 


XI 


Brown : 

And   crocuses   and   mary-buds 
Are  shyly  opening. 

But  never  bud  or  bloom  or  bird, 

Or  sylvan  serenade, 
Have  we  on  Broadway  seen  or  heard 

Above  the  din  of  trade. 

Nothing  remains  for  one  to  sing 

That  was  not  sung  of  old. 
Except  that  nearly  everything 

But  death  is  bought  and  sold. 

Ay — what  is   life   but   something  cheap, 

And  means  of  living  dear! 
And  what   a   luxury  to  sleep 
Beyond  a  waking  here! 
Gray: 
Of  course — desires  and  pleasures  are 
Enhanced  by  death. 
Brown: 

The  stress 
Of  living  seems  to  grow. 
Gray: 

We  mar 
Our  health  and  happiness 
In  our  own  souls  and  bodies  by 

Imagining  the  worst 
Precedes  the  best. 


12 


Broivn : 

Mere  martyrs! 
Gray : 

Why 
Aspire   to   be  the   first? 

Heaven  with  hell  sometimes  agrees 

That  man  be  gay,  instead 
Of  vainly  coveting  the  ease 

And  leisure  of  the  dead. 
Broijun: 

Oblivion  is  failure  still. 
Gray: 

Success  is  understood 
By  those  alone  who  have  the  will 

To  please  the  multitude. 

Brofwn: 

Success  is  something  more  and  more 

Impossible  to  gauge, 
Amid  the  heavy  iron  roar 
And  thunder  of  the  age. 

Relying  on  themselves,  the  strong 

Condemn  and  criticize, 
Or  damn  the  weakling  in  the  throng 

Who  may  not  win  the  prize; 

Or  storm  the  age  with  mightier  deeds 
Than  are  for  us  to  try, 


18 


Who   flourish  simply  as  the  weeds 
That  sprout  and  grow  and  die. 

Life   lingers   on   in   hodden   gray, 
For  one  condemned  to  yearn 

And  rot  ignobly  day  by  day, 
Being  hardly  meet  to  burn. 

My  soul  has  no  dynamic  force, 

Nor  energy  divine, 
To  follow  any  other  course 

Than  happens  to  be  mine. 

And    whatsoever    may    befall 

Is  profitless  and   stale; 
My  youth  has  been  a  prodigal 

At  every  bargain  sale. 

Wherefore  my  once  divine  desires 
Have    crumbled    into    dust. 

Now  that  all  passion  in  me  tires. 
Confusing  love  and  lust. 

I  hear  the  clamor  of  the  town, 
As  something  that  pursues 

A  fugitive  to  drag  him  down 
And  put  him  in  the  news. 

Anon  a  trumpet  warning  peals 
And  challenges  the  fears 

That  rush  and  rally  at  my  heels. 
And  gather  with  the  years. 

14 


On    my    despairing   gaze,    the    sun 

Of  Arcady  and  Ind 
Appears  like  innocence  when  one 

Defiantly  has  sinned. 

Gray: 
The  imagery  is  as  dim 
As  innocence  to  me, 
Upon   my   word! 

Broijun: 

A  passing  whim 
To  jest  at  misery. 

Nor  may  you  wholly  realize 
The  ghosts  that  haunt  my  sight 

Persistently  and  tyrannize. 
The   regions  of  the  night. 

Wanly  the  stars  go  swarming  by, 
Like  moths  upon  the  wing, 

On  whom  the  Spider  of  the  sky 
Is  ever  battening. 

Fairer  than  lilies  in  a  dell. 

The  Plains  of  Night  are  strewn 

With  silvery  shadows  that  foretell 
The  coming  of  the  Moon. 

Gray: 
Good-lack  I 


15 


Brown : 

The  heavy  sable  shade 
Is  yonder  backward   drawn: 
Behold  Her  walking  like  a  maid, 
Far  on  the  starry  lawn 

In  blossom  I 

Gray : 

Dian  is  abroad 
Without  a  chaperone! 

Brown : 

No,  no! 
Gray: 

Betray  and  then  defraud 
Yourself — and  live  alone; 

For  you  must  answer,  ill  or  well, 

For  all  you  do  and  see. 
Brown : 
With  eyes  that  dwell,  as  one  in  hell. 

On   far  felicity, 

I  still  review  the  simple  ways 

Of   happy,   hallowed   years. 
Of  late  the  sun  has  led  my  days 

In  very  sordid  spheres. 

By  night  a  coil  of  avenues 
Around  a  thousand  eyes, 


16 


Is  writhing  where  the  city  views 
Inviolable   skies 

Adorned  and  jeweled  with  the  stars. 

Beneath   them,   waging   stark 
Rebellion,  many  a  toiler  wars 

With   hunger   in   the   dark. 

Like  ghosts  of  former  lass  and  lad, 
Are  ghoulish   shapes  that  greet 

And  spend  themselves  upon  the  sad. 
Gay  women  of  the  street. 

By  day  the  sore  and  feeble  stray 

Amid   the   sights   that  breed 
In  lanes  and  avenues — the  prey 

Of   every   crouching  need. 

Once — once  when,   raving  in   his   cell, 

As  back  and  forth  he  trod. 
They  said  the  convict  prayed  to  hell — 

I  damned  and  doubted  God. 
Gray  ; 
Divinity  has  been  denied 

By  many  a  brooding  mind; 
And  looking  on  the  darkest  side 

Drives  men  and  women  blind. 

Though  Life  and  Love  are  bought  and  sold, 

Remember  that  the  trees 
Forever  mantle,  as  of  old. 

With   green   embroideries. 

17 


Glad  April  pipes  right  merrily; 

And  when  the  apples  fall, 
The  lanterns  of  Sainte  Eulalie 

Are  beacons  to   us   all. 

Hearing  the  matins  and  the  lauds 

Of  heaven  chime  and  ring, 
The  sun  still  rises  and  applauds 

The  jocund  shout  of  Spring. 
Broivn : 

On  Broadway,  by  a  happy  chance, 

My  eyes  have  freshly  seen 
The  soul  of  April  and  Romance, 

Not  far  from  Bowling  Green. 

And   something  came   down   from  the   skies. 

Distilling  fresh   delight. 
As  though  a  rose  in  human  guise 

Had  blossomed  on  my  sight. 

Ah!  had  it  been  the  Holy  Grail, 

Or  an  old  Christian  shrine. 
No  greater  wonder  could   prevail 

Than  made  the  day  divine. 

For  a  once  dear  familiar  face 

And  presence  suddenly 
Were  summoned  from  the  past  to  grace 

A  fading  memory. 


18 


And  like  a  song  that  has  been  sung, 

Or   story  that  is  told, 
My  aching  thoughts  have  been   among 

The  happy  days  of  old. 

Enter  Green, 

Gray  : 
What  news?     Have  you  been  on  the  mount 

Where  grows  the  herb  of  grace? 
And  near  enough  to  Spring  to  count 

The  blushes  on  her   face? 
Green : 
I?     I  have  overheard  the  rill 

Rehearse  for  hours  and  hours'; 
And  witnessed,  over  dale  and  hill, 

The  marriage  of  the  flowers. 

And  learned  why  Time  is  fleeting — aye! 

And  why  Art  is  so  long; 
And  on  a  week-end  holiday 

Have  made  a  little  song — 

A  song  that  haply  has  been  sung. 

And  been  rehearsed  again, 
Since  Time   and   Chance   and  Love  were  young. 
Gray: 

Recite  or  sing  it,  then. 

Green:    {recites), 

19 


SONG, 

They  have  asked  me  <why  the  flonvers, 

Lady   mine, 
Cast  a  shadonji}  on  the  hours. 

As  they  pine. 
Surely  they  know  not  the  room 
In  dream- chambers  'where  the  gloom 
May  be  sweetened  by  a  bloom, 

Lady   mine! 

If  I  plucked  the  stars  for  roses, 

Lady   mine. 
And  told  all  that  Day  discloses. 

As  the  shine 
Of  the  sunlight  strikes  the  shade 
Round  the  golden  petals  laid 
On   your   bosom,   they   would  fade, 

Lady  mine. 

But  if  I  could  run  a  brook. 

Lady   mine. 
That  with  chatters  through  each  nook 

Would  entwine. 
In  its  ebb  and  surge  and  flow. 
All  the  roses,  do  you  know 
What  the  breeze  would  whisper  low. 

Lady  mine? 


20 


Brofivn: 

Have  done!     No  solace  may  be  won 
By  taking  Love  in  vain. 

Gray: 
Love  seeks  for  solace  in  the  sun, 
As  well  as  in  the  rain. 

Green  : 
Ah!     The  heart   of   Time  groius  heavy, 

Lady  mine. 
Feiv  that  mustered  in  the  levy 

Are  in   line. 
Do  you  know  what  age  will  do 
To  the  roses  plucked  for  you, 
When  the  sun  has  left  no  dew, 

Lady  mine? 

Gray. 
Coming  with  Cupid  from  the  woods, 

The  king-cups  you  have  seen 
Approach  and  doff  their  little  hoods 
Before  the  Fairy  Queen! 
Brown : 

A  gross  anachronism!     Bow 
Them  out  of  doors. 
Green : 

I    seem 
To  see  the  fairies  even  now, 
As  in  a  boyish  dream: 


31 


Away  down  in   a  wooded  dell, 
Still  trooping  through  the  shade, 

Step  by  step  to  an  elfin  bell 
An   eery  cavalcade. 

Anon   the  warriors  gather   round 

With  leafy  lances  bent; 
The  beetle,  with  his  bugle  wound, 

Proclaims  the  tournament. 

And  dimly,  as  the  airy  sprites 
Upraise  a  muffled  cheer, 

The  firefly  in  the  grasses  lights 
His  swinging  chandelier. 
Gray: 

Since  when  have  you  returned 
From  where  the  twilight  veils 

Arcadia? 

Broijun: 

And   only   learned 
To   foster   fairy   tales 
Of  revelry? 

Green : 

A  starry  fay. 
With  heaven   listening 
Out  on  the  hills,  taught  me  today 
A  song  the  thrushes  sing: 


22 


Something  bids  the  forest  hush; 

Little  pinions  softly  ivhir. 
Hardly  in  the  underbrush 

Does  a  leaf  or  shadow  stir. 

Is  it  playing  just  in  fun. 

Or  in  tears  the  forest  grieves, 

Ere  the  happy  morning  sun 
Glances  in  among  the  lewves? 

Oh,  to  hear  a  happy  voice! 

Just  the  angel  of  the  rain. 
Bidding  earth  and  sky  rejoice! 

Sing  on — sing  that  song  again! 

Gray  : 

What? 
Brown  : 


Green : 


On  the  hills? 

Yes:  let  me  think. 


Gray: 

Think?     Never  think  to  pin 
The  angels  down.    But  up  and  drink 
A  health  to  Spring! 
Brown : 

Begin. 
Gray: 
Daily  there  is  but  little  more 
Than  duty  to  be  done, 

23 


Nor  right  to  rest  attained  before 

The   setting  of  the  sun. 
A  stout  heart  is  the  merry  heart, 

Upon  a  fading  trail; 
And  though  it  end  where  it  did  start, 

I  sing  the  humming  ale. 


Chorus. 

We   sing   the   humming   ale,   good   friend! 

But  here's  a  health  to  you; 
With  one  more,  when  the  trail  shall  end, 

To  turn  and  start  anew. 
Heigh-ho!  the  bowl,  from  brim  to  brim, 

Lies  full.     Fill  a  cup. 
While  now  the  rosy  apples  swim. 

Drink  deep!     Drink  it  up! 

Green : 
The  sounding  city  offers  some 

Felicity,   but  oh, 
Once  more  at  leisure  let  me  roam 

Where  prairie  breezes  blow! 
Once  more  the  sturdy  roving  foot; 

And   with   an   ample   load 
Of  light  hopes  and   an  easy  boot, 

I    sing   the    open    road. 


24 


Chorus. 
We  sing  the  open  road,  good  friend! 

But  here's  a  health  to  you ; 
With  one  more  to  the  nappy  blend 

Of  Saxon  in  the  brew. 
Heigh-ho!  the  bowl,  from  brim  to  brim, 

Lies  full.    Fill   a  cup. 
While  now  the   rosy  apples   swim, 
Drink  deep!     Drink  it  up! 
Brown : 

Shuddering  cities  fall   asleep. 

Obediently  still. 
Bedded  in   darkness  is  the  deep 

Dream  of  the  urging  will. 
Shirking  the  burden  and  the  stress, 

The  gypsy  has  to  rove; 
But  still,  for  hope  and  happiness, 
I  sing  the  song  of  love. 

Chorus. 
We  sing  the  song  of  love,  good  friend! 

But   here's   a   health   to   you ; 
With  one  more  to  the  hopes  that  send 

The  parting  moments  through. 
Heigh-ho!  the  bowl,  from  brim  to  brim. 

Lies  full.     Fill   a   cup. 
While  now  the   rosy  apples   swim. 

Drink  deep!     Drink  it  up! 


25 


SUMMER 

Scene   and  Persons:    The  Same 

Evening.  The  room  is  lighted  by  hanging  lamps  in 
the  center.  On  a  table  are  pipes  and  glasses^  a  jar  of 
tobacco  and  a  crock  of  ale.  The  moon  shines  through 
an  eastern  ivindofw. 

Green : 
A  clear  soprano,  filled  with  sun, 

The  thrush  repeats  his  wedding  song. 
Gray: 

Once  more  blithe  summer  voices  throng. 
Green: 

Once  more  the  gossip  waters  run. 

Gray: 
They  murmur  of  the  flowers  of  hope, 
That  twinkled   over  fens   and  lakes. 
Green : 

Upon   a  thousand  gardens  breaks 
A  thunder-shower  of  heliotrope. 

Gray : 

And  daisy-blossoms  fringe  the   lanes. 
Green : 

And  where  the  drowsy  primrose   dreams 
The  livelong  day,  the  woodland   streams 
Are  brimming  with  the  summer  rains. 

26 


The  robin  beats  his  golden  gong 
With  rapture,  leading  many  a  band 
Of   woodland    minstrels. 
Gray : 

Down   the   land, 
Come  thrush  and  black-bird  borne  along. 

They  say  a  bird  on  every  tree 
Is  busy  with   a   song. 
Brown : 

They  say 
A  million  human  voices  pray 
Upon  a  second  Calvary. 

A  distant  sound  of  weary  feet 
Arises  and  assails  my  ears, 
As  though  a  fountain-head  of  tears 

Were  playing  yonder  in  the  street. 

Green : 
The  owl  molests  the  solemn  chime 
In  many  a  belfry  far  away. 
Brown : 

To-whit,  to-whoo — which  is  to  say 
That  to  be  happy  is  a  crime. — 

Dumb,  beyond  dreaming,  who  can  be 
Deaf   to    the    ever-clanging   bell 
That  registers  and  rings  the  knell 

Of  faith  and  hope  and  charity! 


27 


Green : 
And  still  the  bells  of  elfland  ring 
In  the  high  turrets  of  the  air. 
Bro^n: 

What  wonder  that  the  owl  must  stare, 
Like  one  whose  wits   are  wandering! 

Green : 

What  wonder  that,  on  nights  as  clear 
And  bright  as  this,  the  elfin  folk, 
Who  paint  the  lilies,  on  the  stroke 

Of  twelve,  are  wonted  to  appear! 

Bro<wn: 

So   far   may   fancy,    rather,    stray. 

Green : 

No,  no! 

Bro«wn: 

Then  bid  your  fancy  go, 
And  be  a  swallow  in  the  glow 
Of  meadows  waving  far  away. 

Gray: 

Turn  down  the  lamps. 
Green : 

Wait! 
Broivn : 

Turn  them  out 

Completely  I 


Green : 

You  may  fail  to  see. 
Gray: 

Dive  deep.    We  promise  secrecy. 
Broiun : 

Begin  while  silence  soothes  the  doubt. 

Green: 

Softly  the  wandering  breezes  pass 

And  whisper  something  through  the  years, 
Disclosing  all  the  green  frontiers, 

As  in  a  magic  looking-glass. 

Afar  the  blue  horizon  fills 

And  mantles  with  a  rosy  foam: 
And  now  the  herds  are  nearing  home, 

As  evening  gathers  on  the  hills. 

A  distant  ridge:  with  shaded  eyes, 
I  stand  and  gaze;  and  over  all 
The  hills  and  dales  a  human  call 

Arises  fraught  with  thronging  sighs; 

Arises  with  an  echo  so 

Melodious  and  thin  and  lone. 

The  thrushes  launch  a  trembling  tone 

On  waves  of  music  sobbing  low. 

And  over  hill  and  over  dale. 

As  darkness  deepens  on  the  land. 


29 


Softly  the  Moon,  with  cloudy  hand, 
Puts  on  her  lace  and  silver  veil. 

Remotely  ebbing — heard   again, 
The  sobbing  billows  faintly  break 
On  phantom  shores:  the  zephyrs  shake, 

And  darkness  overruns  the  plain. 

Broivn : 

It  is  too  dark  indeed  to  find 
Beauty  amid  such  ugliness 
As  one  deplores,  with  less  and  less 

Despair  of  ever  going  blind. 

The  city  goes  from  bad  to  worse. 
And   festers  like   a   running  sore 
That  spreads  and,  growing  more  and  more, 

Is  slowly  rotting  to  a  curse: 

A  discord! 

Green : 

Could  one  only  see 
A  blue-bird  tarry  in  the  street! 
Gray: 

Extremes,   wide-circling,  often   meet; 
And  discord  strengthens  harmony. 

So  never  mope,  nor  ever  dwell 

On  direful  woes  and  ancient  wrongs. 
As  maddening  as  the  maddest  songs 

Of  cap  and  bell. 

30 


Broijon : 

Beneath  the   spell 

Of  ambushed  meanings  that  dismay 
My   wondering    soul,    above    me    leer 
Devouring  eyes — as  those  of  Fear. 
Gray: 

Unleash  the  dogs  and  come  away! 

A   danger,  wooed   in  wilfulness, 
Caps  vanity. 
Green : 

Which,  capped,  avoid. 
Decisive  moments,  unemployed, 
Are  swift  forerunners  of  distress. 

Brofwni 

Who  can  avoid  the  human  pang 
That  stabs  a  spirit  at  the  Throne, 
When  many  hear  the  doom  of  one 

Who  dreamt  his  foolish  dreams — and  sang! 

Green : 
Or  wise  or  foolish,  let  us  cross 
No  bridges   ere   we  come  to  them. 
Gray: 

Forever  has  the  rarest  gem 
Been  hidden  where  the  tempests  toss. 


31 


And  so,  another  round  of  ale, 
And  someone  sound  a  sylvan  note. 
Green : 

As  once  in  outland  ways  remote 

Was  heard  the  whistle  of  the  quail 

Across  the  lonely  miles  and  far 
Away  where  earth  and  heaven  meet 
On  hallowed  ground,  in  dear  and   sweet 

Communion  with  the  evening  star. 

Broivn : 

There   are   no   longer   any  dews 
In  mist  or  rain,  nor  any  bell 
To  toll  me  nearer  home  and  quell 

The  thunder  of  the  avenues. 

Green : 
Away  from  irking  toil  and  town, 
New  hopes  may  blossom  and  unfold. 
Bro^n: 

Aspire  and  dream  and  feel  the  old 
Enthusiasm  dying  down! 

My   courage   bends   beneath   the   weight 

Of  obligations  to  be  met; 

And  on  me  heavily  is  set 
The  scarlet  seal  of  love  and  hate. 

My  soul   is  rubbed   by   every  wrong 
It  touches — and  is  red  and  raw. 


32 


Life  rasps  me  like  a  rusty  saw 
That  drones  a  lazy,  vicious  song. 

Art?     Nature?     Each  a  heartless  bawd, 

Supreme  in  her  indifference! 

They  have  obsessed  my  every  sense, 
Save  that  which  deems  them  but  a  fraud. 

Ahead  are  spread  the  dreary  years 

In  drab  and  dull  monotony; 

And  mine  but  weakly  is  to  see 
The  rainbows  that  are  woven  tears. 

Nor  may  the  Message  of  the  Dawn 
Be  mine  to  sing  or  mine  to  say, 
When  the  Great  Question  bars  the  way. 
Green : 

The  Question? 

Brotiani 


Gray: 

Bronvn   (reading)  : 


Written  here. 

Go  on. 


SONG. 

Why  is  the  young  (world  nveeping, 
With  its  heart  so  full  of  song? 

And  eyes  like  pools  of  vision^ 
Rain-blue  and  sun-strong? 


33 


Nor  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow. 
Nor  a  treasure  nuorth  the  keeping, 

In  (vieiv  of  the  gold  the  morronvs  hold: 
Why  is  the  young  ivorld  <weeping? 

Why  is  the  strong  ivorld  iveeping, 

With  the  thunders  in  its  grasp? 
And  love  so   fwilloiv-slender 

And  ready  to  its  clasp f 
Time,  in  the  middle  harvest 

Of  solving  days  and  reaping. 
Delays  to  page  the  Golden  Age: 

Why  is  the  strong  ivorld  weeping? 

Why  is  the  gray  world  weeping, 

With  heaven  so  near  at  hand? 
And  with  no  wish  nor  wonder 

Elsewise  to  understand? 
Drowned  hopes  have  turned  to  coral. 

And  Age  comes  creeping,  creeping 
Down  to  the  streams  of  deep  day-dreams: 

Why  is  the  gray  world  weeping? 

Gray: 
Self-flattery  and  praise  withheld, 

Being  the  base  of  shallow  grief, 

It  has  become  my  firm  belief 
That  tears  are  seldom  deeply  welled. 


34 


Green\ 
If  duty  has  been   reckoned  least, 
A  song  is  nobler  never  sung. 
Gray: 

Devoutly   rosaries   are   strung 
For   penitents' as   well    as   priest. 

Green : 
Well   said! 

Bronun: 

Albeit  feeble   speech 
May   touch    the    story    clumsily, 
Some  haunting  Presence  follows  me, 
Prodigious  in  its  subtle  reach. 

I  gaze  from  heaven,  from  the  gate, 
Adown  the  dim,  vast  starlit  hall. 
Wherein  the  nations  rise  and  fall 

Like   shadows,   at  the   whim  of  Fate. 

A  moment  near,  a  moment  gone. 
And  sounding  on  the  iron  skies, 
A  Voice  of  Thunder  dwells  and  dies; 

And  so  the  world  moves  on  and  on. 

Crowding  the  distant  starry  road, 
With  banners  fading  one  by  one. 
The   pageant   passes   and — alone, 

I  dream  the  solitude  of  God. 


36 


Green : 

Unreal    reality. 
Gray : 

Yes — ^yes ! 
The   paradox  may   have   a   phase 
Of  truth:  but  come,   a  health — to   raise 
This  siege  of  growing  moodiness! 

Green : 

A  health  around! 
Gray: 

One  more — and  then. 
Good-night. 
Green : 

You  leave? 
Gray: 

My  holiday. 
Green: 

And  whither? 

Gray: 

England. 

Green : 

What?    Hooray 
For  Merrie  England  once   again! 

Gray: 
For  all  the  English  flags  unfurled 
Beneath  the  sun! 


36 


Broivn : 

And   why  not  our 
B^epublic,  mighty  with  the  power 
To  mold  the  future  of  the  world, 

With  hands  as  strong  and  sure  as  Fate? 
The  emblem  of  the  flag  we  fly 
Is  peace,  to  station  manhood  high. 

Or  war,  to  make  a  nation  great. 

Green : 

And    Germany? 
Gray. 

A  feudal  folk. 
Whose  blood  is  surging  through  our  veins. 
Green : 

Dark   Russia? 
Gray: 

Groaning  at  the  yoke, 
Still  Russia  toward  freedom  strains. 

And  France,  whom  words  may  not  express, 
Whose  glory  may  not  be  denied. 
Still  flushes,  deeply  mortified. 

Behind   a   veil   of   loveliness. 

But  all  are  watching,  from  afar, 
An    empire,    born    of   old    distress, 
Awakening  to  consciousness. 


37 


Green : 
The   glory   of   our   rising   star 
Shall  never  wane.  * 

Gray: 

The  sword   and  pen 
We  wield  as  when  our  fathers  saw 
The  dawn  of  Universal  Law, 
In  England   among  Englishmen. 

Brown: 

I  think  of  Ireland  held  in  thrall. 
Gray: 

I  think  that  I  have  somewhere  heard 
Of  freedom  as  an  Irish  word, 
Revered  among  us  most  of  all. 

Erin,  that  hungers  for  a  crumb, 
Like  a  beloved  vagabond. 
Remains   improvident — the  fond 

And  foolish  waif  of  Christendom. 

Brown: 

For  Law   and   Freedom! 
Brown: 

Why  not,  pray, 
America — and  with   a  cheer? 
Green: 

Hurrah — stand  up ! 
Brown : 

And   let  us  hear 
From  some  one  with  a  wassail. 
38 


Gray: 

Stay! 

We  have  heard  the  toast  to  a  people 

Who  inherit  the  English  tongue; 
By  the  men  of  the  far  horizons 

Their  praises  have  been  sung — 
Sung  by  the  ^warder  kinsmen, 

Whose  cause   is  a  common   cause, 
When  the  vandal  cannon  thunder 

Against  the  iron  laws. 

Abroad  are  the  King  and  the  Kaiser 

War-bent  on  the  thin  frontier. 
Under  the  seas  come  stealthily 

A  rumor  and  a  fear. 
Shall  the  nations  not  be  wiser 

Than   Goth   and  Frank  and  Hun, 
Till  the  great  gray  seas  cease  chanting 

Under  the  tranquil  sunf 

Blow  winds,  blow  the  West  good  tidings! 

Blow  peace  to  the  South  and  North! 
And  tonight,  as  the  starry  cohorts 

Break  ranks  and  sally  forth. 
And  the  lights  of  a  beacon  empire 

Flash  clear  to  the  seventh  sea. 
Drink — drink  that  the  sun  shall  ever 

Be  shining  on  the  free! 


39 


And  peace  to  the  cobnvehbed  cannon! 

In  peace,  as  brothers  may, 
While  the  ships  of  a  Whiter  Squadron 

Ride  on  to  a  brighter  day, 
A  health  to  the  Unknoivn  Father! 

To  the  Universal  Plan! 
And  the  La^uj  of  a  kindred  children, 

From  the  States  to  Hindostan! 


AUTUMN. 

Scene  and  Persons:  The  Same 

Entering, 
Broivn: 

Four  months? 
Gray : 

Today. 
Broivn : 

And  you  are  back 
From  overseas  to  recommend 
The    treadmill    and    the    beaten    track, 
That  lead  to  nothing  in  the  end: 

Where  men,  who  want  for  daily  bread. 
Are  vassals  of  the  phantom  will, 

And  daily  subject  to  the  dread 
That  need  and  ghoulish  laws  instill. 


40 


Foregoing  everything — to  think 

Of   wandering   across   the    sea, 
And  having  time  to  breathe,  and  drink 

The  nectar  of  such  luxury! 

Ah!  to  have  spent  a  summer  there, 

Before  the  war  hounds  yelped  and  bayed! 

And  was  the  Old  World  very  fair? 
Or  were  its  edges  worn  and  frayed? 

Green  : 
Was  it  congenial,   as  of  old, 

To  view  at  ease,  on  pleasure  bent. 
The   parlor  countries   wherein  lolled 

The   lords   of   leisure   and   content? 

Broivn : 

Contentment   may   waylay   the    sun, 

And  thaw  the  zones  to  mellow  mirth, 
Yet  coldly  comfort  any  one 

Denied  the  freedom  of  the  earth. 

Green: 
What  was  it  like?     How   did   it  seem. 

Upon  a  tramp  abroad,  to  see, 
Abruptly,  like   a  broken   dream, 

A  new  page  turned  in  history? 

In  August  to  have   seen  mankind 
Deliberately  stab  itself! 


41 


Gray: 
The    war?     Why,    Europe    went    stone    blind; 
And  hell  broke  loose  in  search  of  pelf. 

The  vultures,  that  do  commonly 

Haunt  the  gray  edges  of  the  world, 
Plucked  at  its  heart. 
Broiun : 

Yet  you   were  free 
To  mix  and  mingle  where  they  whirled. 

Gray : 

And  you? 
BroiJijn: 

I?     I   have   been   a   slave 
To  ways  and  woes  and  written  words. — 
Green : 

Indeed? 
Broiun: 

Not  having  dared  to  brave 
Dismissal    and   go   where   the   birds, 

Across  the  dreamy,  golden  hours. 

Through    sunny    afternoons    took    flight. 

And,  singing,  wakened  in  the  flowers 
The   pulses  of  a   new   delight. 

Necessity  has  made  me  fear 
The  pinch  of  poverty  and  need. 

To  drudge   and  duel  daily  here. 

With  thoughts  of  other  mouths  to   feed. 
43 


Touching  the  spirit  of  it  all, 

Is  something  deeper  than  distress, 

As  now  and  then  I  half  recall 
Some  old  forgotten  happiness. 

Maugre   the   tear  that  wells   and   thrills 
From  heart  to  eyes  that  strive  to  see 

The  waning  wonders  on  the  hills 
And  frontiers  of  eternity. 

Gray: 
I  have  a  poem  that  may  cheer 

And  lift  and  take  you  out  of  town. 
And  make  you  hold  as  something  dear 

The  green-grass  gospel. 

Green : 

Read  it,  Brown. 
Broivn   {reading) : 

WANDERLUST, 

God,  fwith  a  datwning  gaze. 

Kindles   the   sun, 
Forging  the  iron  days 

One  after  one; 

Shapes  and  designs  the  trees. 

And  noiv  and  then. 
Fanning  the  furnaces. 

Labors  on  men; 


43 


Smiting  and  hammering 
This  from  an  ape, 

That  from  a  stammering 
Primeval  shape; 

Giving  them  each  the  vast 
Reach  of  the  sky. 

Since  the  dark  ages  passed 
Tardily  by. 

Showing  the  luay  to  choose 

Rest  and  reward 
From  the  green  revenues 

Next  to   the  sward; 

Urging  and  beckoning 

City  and  town 
Forth  for  a  reckoning 

Now  and  anon 

Over  the  open  trail, 

Clean  from  the  din; 
Sun — stars — a  friendly  hail. 
Lights  and  the  Inn. 
Green : 
Harken  the  heavy  iron  clang, 

Such  as  the  world  was  built  upon! 
Brown: 

Oh  for  the  time  when  Homer  sang 
The  holy  candor  of  the  dawn! 


44 


Gray: 
Why   brood   and   browse   on   Once    and   Then, 

When  Here  and  Now  are  full  of  hope, 
And  women  bravely  tread  with  men 

The  upward  and  the  downward  slope. 

Green : 

Or  whether  in  or  whether  out, 

When    Fortune    happens    down    the    way, 
Be  thankful  for  the  call. 
Gray: 

And  shout 
With  us  who  hail  the  coming  day. 

Broivn : 

A  far  cry ! 
Green : 

No! 

Gray: 

Whom  have  you   met 
To  introduce  so  much  of  gloom? 
In  happiness  one  must  forget. 
Bronvn: 

My   Spring,   that  left,   forgot  to  bloom. 

And  happiness,  though  erstwhile  sweet, 
Was  but  as  poppies  ere  they  swoon. 

With  faces   shyly   raised   to   meet 
A  fatal  kiss — the  kiss  of  noon. 


45 


For  days  grow  long,  and  one  grows  tired 
Of  shaping  ways  and  means  to  fit; 

Keeping  ahead  of  hunger — hired, 
The  latest  auctioneer  of  wit. 

Alas  that  flattery  is  sought 
By  those  who  covet  and,  like  me, 

Clutch  at  the  tangled  ends  of  thought, 
And  borrow  at  sad  usury! 

With  all  the  harvest  of  a  youth 

Misspent,  I  now  am  left  by  Art 
With  needless  songs,  to  bear — forsooth! 

The  burden  of  a  wasted  heart. 
Green : 
Crosses  and  thorns  are  grievous — though 

We  carry  burdens  of  our  own. 
Gray: 
As  Jacob  did,  when  long  ago 

His  harder  pillow  was  a  stone. 

The  moral  is  as  broad  today 

As  it  is  long — and   new   and  true 
As  is  our  greatly  simply  lay, 
That  trumpets   the   Red,   White   and   Blue- 
Green : 

The  flag! 
Gray: 

The   flag  that  Grant   and  Lee 
At  Appomattox  saw  unfurled, 

46 


To  bid  us  stand  for  liberty 

And  be  the  conscience  of  the  world. 
Broivn : 

What?     Bide    in    any    London    crowd, 
Berlin,   or   Petrograd,    amid 

Paris,  when  Paris  thinks  aloud. 
Or  in  Vienna,  Rome,  Madrid ; 

And  hear  the   slight  and  grudging  praise 

That  scouts  our  chances  to  attain 
What  Lincoln  dreamt,  except  to  raise 

And  crown  a  shadowy  Charlemagne! 
Gray : 
Too  late.     No  Caesars  need   apply; 

And   Charlemagnes    are   overdue. 
Shining  for  us  to  travel  by 

Is  peace  to  light  the  ages  through. 

Green : 

Begin  again! 
BrofLun : 

An   antique   role. 
When  all  about  us  is  the  din 
Of  armament. 
Gray: 

A  pipe  and  bowl. 
And  we  are  all  immortal! 
Brown : 

In 


47 


The  breath  of  war,  it  does   suffice 
To  say  that  such  as  we  who  sing 

Are   but   as   foolish   little   flies, 
Or  hornets  eunuch-fain  to  sting. 

So  praises  be — and  let  us  hear 

How  Green  has  found  the  countryside; 
And  how  the  golden  fields  appear, 

With  portaled   harvests   opened   wide. 
Green : 
Occultly  through  a  riven  cloud. 

The  ancient  river  shines  again, 
Still  wandering  like  a  silver  road 

Among  the  cities  in  the  plain. 

On  far  horizons  softly  lean 

The  hills  against  the  coming  night; 

And  mantled  with  a  russet  green, 
The   orchards  gather   into   sight. 

Through  apples  hanging  high  and  low. 
In  ruddy  colors,  deeply  spread 

From  core  to  rind,  the  sun  melts  slow. 
With  gold   upcaught  across  the  red. 

And  here  and  there,  with  sighs  and  calls, 
Among  the  hills  an  echo  rings 

Remotely  as  the  water  falls 

And  down  the  meadow  softly  sings. 


48 


A  wind  goes  by;  the  air  is  stirred 
With  secret  whispers  far  and  near; 

Another  token — just  a  word 

Had  made  the  rose's  meaning  clear. 

I  see  the  fields;  I  catch  the  scent 

Of  pine  cones  and  the  fresh  split  wood, 

Where  bearded  moss  and  stains  are  blent 
With  autumn  rains — and  all  is  good. 

An  air,   arising,  turns  and  lifts 
The  fallen  leaves  where  they  had  lain 

Beneath  the  trees,  then  weakly  shifts 
And  slowly  settles  back   again. 

While  with  far  shouts,  now  homeward  bound. 
Across  the  fields  the  reapers  go; 

And,  with  the   darkness  closing  round. 
The  lilies  of  the  twilight  blow. 

Bronvn: 

Cease,   cease! 
Gray: 

Around   us   rolls   and   roars 
The  tide  of  traffic. 
Green : 

Over  trees, 
On  wood  and  orchard  Nature  pours 
Her  crimson  autumn  witcheries. 


49 


Broivn : 

All  day  the  roaring  tide  has  rolled, 
On  every  side,  on   every  hand. 
Green: 
And  all  day  have  been  lavished  gold 
And  glory  on  the  autumn  land. 
Broivn: 
A  captive  spirit  is  but  one 

Imploring  something  beautiful. 
Gray: 
Lanier  and  Whitman   saw  the  sun 
As  something  other  than  the  dull 

Had  yet  imagined. 
Broivn : 

Artists    crave 
The   hidden   soul   in    everything. 
Green : 
The  vireos  of  autumn  rave 
With  mellow  voices  carolling 

So  sweetly! 
Broivn: 

Art  is  full  of  cant, 
Deluding  those  who  are  but  wise 
Enough  to  crave   a   stimulant 

Made   half  of  truth   and  half  of  lies. 
Green : 
Of  lies?  ii 


50 


Gray: 

No,  no!     Men  meet   and   part 
In  droves  and  flocks;  but  it  is  fleece 
Half  clothes  the  world:  and  as  for  Art, 
The  city  is  a  masterpiece. 
Bro^wn : 

Art  surely  has  gone  out  of  date. 

And  Worship  has  been  shot  with  fear. 
Alas  that  it  has  been  too  late 
To  bid  the  old  gods  reappear! 

Recant   nor   call    it   heresy 

To  lay  the  phantom  fires  of  hell; 
Nor  worship  with  a  cringing  knee 

The  narrow  God  of  Israel. 
Gray, 
Beauty  and  Truth  and  Love  are  still 

The  trinity — the   polar   star. 
Guiding  perchance  by  starry  will 

Such  derelicts  as  mortals  are. 
Broivn : 

Truth  that  in  fire  and  flower  has  slept 

Since  Eden  and  the  dawn  of  dreams, 
Is  roused  nor  kept  awake  except 

By  mortals  going  to  extremes. 
Green : 
For  mortal  eyes  it  is  but  meet 

That  beauty  never  grows  so  fair 


51 


But  that  one,  searching  in  the  street, 
May  find  it  lurking  here  and  there. 

In  dust  and  gutter  and  the  whine 
Of  poverty  may  still  be  found 

The  accent,  as  of  things  divine. 
Lost  in  a  wilderness  of  sound. 

Yet  take  us  hence  and  let  us  hear 

Of  knights  and  kings  and  seneschals; 

In  the  gray  empires  bring  us  near 
The   moats   and   mossy  castle   walls — 

When  victor  over  vanquished  stood. 

And  men  thought  chivalry  to  be 
A  pilgrimage  in  manlihood, 

Before  the   shrine  of  courtesy. 
Gray: 
So  long  ago  they  went  their  way 

That  but  their  shadows  now  remain, 
Beyond  such  things  as  be  today. 

With  chivalry  upon  the  wane. 

Europe  is  still  across  a  blue. 

Interminable  barricade. 
And  gazes  frowning  on  the  new 

Frontier   and  order  we   have  made. 

Goodly  and  fair  it  is  the  while 

To  muse  on  hallowed  shrines,  and  see 
As  in  a  vision,  slowly  file 

The  knightly  ranks  of  pageantry; 
52 


When   he,  the   lion-hearted   king, 

Was  royally  a  troubadour; 
And  he,  of  fame  still  echoing. 

Stabbed  France  awake  at  Azincour; 

Or  when  those  early  warrior  lords, 
Within  the  Temple  Garden  gate. 

Ere  Towton  was  a  field  of  swords, 

Raised  the  white  rose  and  wrecked  a  State. 

But  life  has  come  to  have  less  room 

For  conflict  than  in   ages  gone. 
And  much  less  need  of  men  in  whom 
The  ape  and  tiger  linger  on. 
Broivn: 

Less  room?  less  need?  How  reconcile 

The  ape  and  tiger  as  revealed? 
The  world  would  kiss  Christ  with  a  smile. 
Clutching  a  dagger  half  concealed. 
Gray: 

The  world? 
Broivn : 

Ay — the  same  Judas  world, 
That  never  changes  or  grows  old; 
In  whose  heart  treachery  lies  curled 
And  venomous  and  serpent-cold. 
Gray: 
Nay!     Catholic  humanity. 

Whose  ribs  are  made  of  rocks  and  sod, 


63 


Remains  deep-hearted  as  the   sea, 
And  just  about  as  broad  as  God. 

And  gladly  does  it  hear  the  gay 

And  sanguine  voice  of  Shakespeare  sing 
Such  songs  as  only  singers  may 
When  joy-bells  of  a  nation  ring. 
Brofwn: 

I  question  Shakespeare. 
Gray: 

Be  inclined 
To   doubt  the  name,  but  heed  the  voice 
And  motions  of  the  mighty  mind 

That  made  the  morning  stars  rejoice. 
Green : 

His  gaily,  gallantly  to   reign. 

And   be,   among  the  men  of   rhyme, 
A  poet  ever  to  remain 

And  cheer  the  heavy  heart  of  Time. 
Gray: 

His  voice  the   heavens  bent  to   hear! 
Green : 

His  sway  is  over  all  romance! 
Broivn: 

And    all    reality! 
Gray : 

I  fear 
No  eulogies  are  left  for  France. 


64 


Nor  for  the  deep-toned  singing  land, 
Whose  passions  now  are  running  wild ; 

Rude,   rabid,    ruthless   to   command, 
And  simple-hearted  as  a  child. 

Nor  for  the  royal  Savoyard, 

Who  reigns  in  Rome,  where  Caesars  reigned, 
Weighing  the  chances  of  reward, 

Victor  in  name — but  not  ordained. 

Nor  for  the  Man  of  Destiny 

Who,  in  his  hour  of  triumph — lo! 

With  unawed  will  was  soon  to  see 
The  ruined  dream  at  Fontainebleau. 

Bro^n: 

And  life  has  come  to  have  less  room 
For  conflict  than  in  ages  gone? 
Grayx 
The  dawn  breaks  slowly  through  the  gloom 
And    shadow   of   Napoleon; 

Breaks  slowly  through  the  sombre  night 
That  darkened  Spain — and  that  again. 

On   Mexico   falls   like   a   blight. 

Shrouding  the  slayer  and  the  slain. 

Nor  shall  one  prophesy  the  end. 
While  Hope  and  Love  continue  strong. 
Broiun : 

The  most  of  strength  that  we  can  lend 
It  but  to  tell  the  Right  from  Wrong. 
55 


Disgorged  on  us   a   motley  crowd 

Has  surged — a  tide  no  laws  do  stem. 
They  sap  our  life-blood.     Are  we  proud 

To  have  put  genius  into  them? 
Gray  : 

Cuba,  that  staggered  in  the  dark, 

Hastened  the  dawn  and  bade  us  see 
Clearly  the  way  ahead,  and  mark 

The  milestones  of  eternity. 

Lo!  now  that  Europe  has  been  shot, 
And,   hydra-headed,   lies   half-curled. 

Our  glory  to  have   not  forgot 

To  be  the  conscience  of  the  world. 

Green : 

Hope  dwells  in  this  young  land  of  ours! 
Gray: 

That  groping  out  of  darkness  grew! 
Green : 

Her  woods  are  wild  with  native  flowers! 
Broivn: 

In  them  are  rosemary  and  rue. 


56 


WINTER 

Time:  1914-15. 

Scene  and  Persons:  The  Same 

Logs  blazing  on  the  hearth. 

Gray : 

A  merry  blaze  brings  in  tHe  year. 
Green : 

The  world  is  blithe  and  warm 
In  many  a  home  where  none  may  hear 
The  slander  of  the  storm. 

As  fabled  as  the  desert  suns, 

And   very    far    away, 
Remains  the  thunder  of  the  guns, 

Turning  the   empires   gray. 

Remote  is  Russia,  in  a  trance; 

And  England,  Belgium — dazed 
By  the  great  light  that  shines  in  France. 

Is  Europe  not  amazed? 

Gray: 
Amazed  can  hardly  be  the  word, 

Since  Europe  is  too  old 
To   be   amazed — and   has   not  heard 

The  Message   rightly  told. 


57 


Greater  it  is  than  has  been  said, 

Or  dreamt  or  prophesied, 
By  those  who  dreamt  and  who  are  dead, 

Or  dream  and  have  not  died. 
Green : 

Cronies  of  owlish  vision  know 

That  Right,  as  well  as  Wrong, 
Is  swaying  empires  to  and  fro, 

And   driving  them   along. 

Gray  years  and  tears  are  but  as  one 

Wan  dew-drop  in  a  cup, 
Just  brimming  over  ere  the  sun 

Forever  dries  it  up. 

Despair  and  strength  we  have  in  kind. 

The  sunshine  and  the  showers. 
Among   the   elements   that   bind 

And  hold  us  to  the  flowers. 

So   come — bring  on   the   ruddy   ale. 

If  only  to  be  sure 
That  hope   and   happiness   prevail 

That  men  may  but  endure. 

Once  more — a  health! 
Broivn:  Words — warm  and  light! 

But  warmer,  lighter  still. 
Must  be  the  hearts  of  those  tonight 

Who  would  evade  the  chill. 

58 


For  yonder  crouching  in  his  lair, 
Now   shrewdly   shifting — hark! 

How  the  keen  claws  of  Winter  tear 
The  marrow  of  the  dark! 

Ah!   comrades,   who  may  know  how  wild 

And   piercing,   incomplete, 
Is  silence  when  a  little  child 

Begs  vainly  in  the  street? 

By  many  a  hearth,  in  sore  distress, 

The  mother,  hollow-eyed. 
Is  hiding  from  a  childish  guess 

Her  deep  heart-broken  pride. 

Wrestling   so   playfully   with   Fate, 

Give   pause  amid  the   strife 
And  realize  how  desperate 

Is  each  and  every  life. 

God!  the  remorseless  pendulum 

Ticks  on  and  tolls  the  knell 
Of  some  who  work  and  pray — and  some 

Who  wake  and  weep  in  hell. 

I  hear  the  Christian  curse  his  birth, 

Jews,  Pagans  crying  out 
Against  the  heavens  and  the  earth. 

In  blasphemy  and  doubt. 


59 


The  deep  gulf  between  Right  and  Wrong 

Daily  becomes  a  thing 
That  widens,  widens — and  the  long 

Bread  lines  are  lengthening. 

I  see  Despair  traced  on  the  wall 
Where  none  knew  what  it  meant, 

In  companies  ignoring  all 
The   smothered   discontent. 

Again  they  meet.     I  hear  the  tread 

Of  lawless  bands — and  see, 
Upon  a  million  faces  spread, 

The  scowl  of  anarchy! 

Green : 

Enough — nor  dwell  on  hapless  things 

So  blighting  to  our  cheer. 
Alow,  aloud  the  birch-log  sings 
A  welcome  to  the  year. 

And  while  we  watch  the  dancing  elves, 

Just  turn  another  page. 
And  recollect  that  we  ourselves 

Live  in  a  golden  age. 

And  living  in  an  age  of  gold, 

I  fear  I  cannot  see. 
Or   sympathize   with   any   scold 

Proclaiming  anarchy. 


60 


Brofwit: 

Not  anarchy! 
Green  : 

What  else? 
Brofwn: 

No!  No! 
It  was   a   passing  mood, 
An  idle  fancy.     Now  the  glow 
Of  flame-flowers  scents  the  wood. 

Gray: 
A  nibble!     Surely,  to  insist 

Upon   a  glowing  scent 
Is  marking  Brown   an   anarchist 
Or  else  a  decadent! 

Green : 
Decadency  but  serves  to  blur 
The  candor  of  the  skies. 
Broivn: 

Its  service  simply  is  to  stir 
And  waken   some   surprise. 

Gray: 
Proceed  and  tell  us  how  you  write 

With  hope  or  with  despair, 
Spending  yourself  but  to  invite 
Age,  poverty  and  care. 


61 


Broivn : 

The  tale  is  less  than  many  think 

Who  reckon  it  divine, 
With  no   emotions  taught  to  drink 

Remembrance  as  of  wine. 

Beauty  is  mine  to  seek  and  chart, 

With  Nature   as   a  guide. 
Amid  the  lilies  of  the  heart. 

Through   fibres   pushed    aside. 

Wherefore  I  cull  me  here  a  rose, 

With  lilies  in  between; 
And  reap  but  where  Another  sows, 

To  sow  where  others  glean. 

And,  plucking  blossoms  now  and  then 

For  Love  alone,  I  know, 
Alas!  nor  how  nor  even  when 

Another  one  will  grow. 

By  hour   and   day   and  month   and  year 

I   do   become   a   mark. 
And  am  shot  through  with  killing  fear 

And   horror   of   the    dark. 
Green : 
A  truce  to  such  depressing  moods. 

And  pipes  and  glasses  bring! 
Lo!   in  my  fancy  now  the  woods 

Are  carpeted  with  Spring. 


62 


Like   fugitives   from    fairyland, 
With  dewy  gems  impearled, 

The  flowers  begin  to  understand 
And  range  the  forest  world. 

As  gay  and  reckless  as  of  old, 

Still  rollicking  with  fun. 
The  dandelions  spend  their  gold 

Carousing  in   the   sun. 

Oh,  never  any  daffodil 

But  heeds  the  vernal  call. 
Divinely  pulsing  with  the  thrill 

And  wonder  of  it  all! 

Just  yonder  do  the  pansies  peer 
Around  the  passing  herds, 

Awakening  as  if  to  hear 
Some  carol  of  the  birds. 

And  back  and  forth  the  kingcups  skip 

About  the  blossom  queen, 
All  watching  now  the  crocus  trip 

A  measure  down  the  green. 

Brofwn : 

Already  drifting  is  the  snow 

On  roof  and  square  and  street, 
With  muted  echoes  from  the  slow, 

S^d  tramp  of  weary  feet. 


63 


They  pass  who  duel  with  the  stern 

Necessities — and   grope 
With  failing  strength  who  only  learn 
The  hopelessness  of  hope. 
Green : 

Hark!  midnight  slowly  tolls. 
Gray: 

Time  leaps 
The  hurdled  universe 
Once  over. 
Bronun : 

While  the  city  sleeps 
Securely   on    its    purse 
Of  luxury. 
Green : 

No  more,  for  lo! 
I  only  see  the  woods; 
As,  down  the  year,  beyond  the  snow. 
An  April  orchard  buds. 

Wherein  by  many  a  spreading  tree, 

Descending  far  away. 
In  clean  forgetfulness  I  see 

The  little  children  play. 

And  vocalized  the  air  now  shakes 

As,  hurrying  along. 
The  punctual  bobolincoln  breaks 

Into  a  world  of  song. 

64 


Till  gathering  from  far  and  near 
The  wondrous  lyrics  ring, 

Arousing  violets  to  hear 

The  leaping  laugh  of  Spring. 

Daring  and  urging  many  a  rose 
To  burst  in  crimson  showers, 

Already  faintly  stirs  and  flows 
The  best  blood  of  the  flowers. 

And  over  tree  and  tower  and  town, 
With  night  and  darkness  gone, 

Around  the   lily  stars   are   blown 
The   roses  of  the   dawn. 

Gray: 

The  dawn? 
Green : 

Aurora  bravely  pins 
On  high  a  starry  page. — 
Broivn : 

Illegible. 
Green : 

Whereof   begins 
Another  golden  age. 

Bronvn: 

Born  with  an  instint  to  destroy, 

The  vandal  ages  pass   . 
As  heedlessly  as  any  boy 

Who   stones   a   window-glass. 
65 


Why  make  a  mockery    of  things, 

Excusing  it  as  Art? 
Green : 
A   mockery — when  Joy   still   sings 

Deep  in  the  common  heart? 

Broivni 

I  fear  the  songs  know  much  distress. 
Gray: 

Above  the  darkest  night, 
The  stars  still  shine. 
Bro^n: 

For  happiness? 
Gray: 

Immortal   souls  shall  light 

On  earth  forever  and  for  aye, 

With   their   magnificat, 
While  lad  and  lass  together  stray. 
Green: 

The   heavens   echo  that: 

For  it  is  Love  makes  life  divine. 
Gray: 

A  million  systems  move, 
With  thronging  suns  and  moons  that  shine 

Beneath  the  rule  of  Love. 

Bro^wn: 

The  war-worn  world  begins  to  tire 
And  bend  beneath  the  load 
66 


That  burdens  it — and  to  inquire 
The   distance   and   the   road; 

Begins  to  question  and  to  doubt 
The  guide-book  and  the  Guide, 

Who  lit  the  stars  and  blew  them  out 
Ere  heaven  was  descried. 

Its  faith  is  gone! 
Green  : 

But  something  more 
Than  faith  is  making  plain 
The  highway  to  the  Secret  Door, 
Since  Hope  and  Love  remain. 
Gray : 

Since  Hope  and  Love  remain,  the  great 

World,  reeling,  bludgeoned,  hurled 
From  God,  is  master  of  its  Fate. 
Green : 

Bludgeoned  ? 
Broivn : 

Alas — 
Gray: 

The  world! 


67 


OUTWARD  BOUND 


TO 


EDWIN  MARKHAM 


69 


AT  THE  DOOR. 

HERE   at  the   door   are  visions   unfulfilled, 
Dreams  to   be   dreamt,   and  voices — voices  stilled, 
As  Eden  darkly  was  ere  the  first  bird 
In  the  ancestral  silences  was  heard. 

And  here  are  songs  midway  in  homing  flight. 
That  hover  on  frail  pinions  and  alight 
Softly,   less   audibly   than   is   the   quake 
Of  spirits  tremulous,  or  hearts  that  break, 
Here  at  the  door. 

Here  at  the  door  are  many  messages 

Of  cheer  and  lurking  faith — a  folded  kiss, 

A  sealed  desire,  a  sigh,  a  memory 

Of  things  that  were  as  rainfall  on  the  sea. 

Thronging  are  shapes  and  shadows  near  at  hand. 
Cast  by  the  sun  of  some  lost  fairyland. 
And  in  the  air  are  rumors  and  the  stir 
Of  meetings  and  long  partings  to  occur. 
Here  at  the  door. 


71 


THE   GHOSTLY   HOUND. 

STRETCHED  on  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
No  neighbors  spy 
The  heavy  jaws  but  shun  the  sight, 
On  passing  by: 

The  heavy  jaws  that  sag  and  yawn 

With   hungry    guile. 
Until  the  coming  of  the  dawn 

Blurs    them    awhile. 

O  Hound  of  Death  so  darkly  still, 

Haunting   the   door! 
Sniffing  in  silence  at  the  sill, 

Forevermore  I 

Gray  ghostly  house!     Shall  lurking  fears 

Sigh  through  the  hall, 
Until  the  last  lone  tenant  hears 

The  hushed  footfall? 

*  LITANY   OF  NATIONS. 

The  nations  shall  rush  like  the  rushing  of  many  ^maters 
.  .  .  and  shall  be   chased  before  the  luind. — Isaiah. 

GREECE. 

AEONS  of  old  were  wandering  down  the  seas. 
When  Homer  sang  at  Chios — and  the  sweet 
Tranquillity  of  marching  silences 
Was  broken  at  my  feet. 
*  Written  in   1913. 

72  '      ' 


Great  danuns  have  sho<wn  the  nuay, 

When  nue  have  ivandered. 
God,  in  the  battle  svuayt 

What  have  voe  squandered? 

ITALY. 

Avid   and   Roman-born   in    soul    and   sense, 

Master  of  all  else  but  myself  was  I, 

When,  bound  by  silken  cords  of  indolence, 

I    saw    the    world    go    by. 

FRANCE. 

Ravaging,    roystering    and    repenting — save 

In  story  and  the  regions  of  romance. 
Rises  the  moon  on  whom  more  mad  and  brave 
And  beautiful  than  France? 

GERMANY. 

Once  German  arms  and  German  armies  hurled 

Thunders  on  Rome.    Than  mine  no  readier  hand 
Would  wake  the  violin  and  woo  the  world. 
Were  it  a  fairyland. 

AUSTRIA-HUNGARY. 

Mine  is  a  house  divided  but  upheld 

By  the  sheer  force  of  many  hemming  powers. 
Ages,  like  forests,  have  been  hewn  and  felled 
To  build  my  crumbling  towers. 
73 


RUSSIA. 

Gray  winters  flourish  and  old  empires  fail; 
And  still  the  starry  watchmen  sally  forth, 
As  wardens,  with  me,  of  the  frozen  grail 
And   ramparts   of   the   North. 

BALKAN   STATES. 

Stabbing  the   skies  for  stars  and   air  in  which 

To  bask  awhile  and  breathe — shall  we  remain 
Simply  the  little  brothers  of  the  rich? 

God!  have  we  fought  in  vain? 

SPAIN. 

Strong  was  my  soul  in  war  and  wise  in  peace. 

On  whom  else  was  the  Moslem  vanguard  hurled? 
Ay,  but  for  me  had  any  Genoese 

Sailed  and  brought  back  a  world? 

SWITZERLAND. 

High  noons  and  sunsets  pass  while  I  repeat 
The  world-old  secret  of  the  endless  quest: 
And  with  the  nations  ageing  at  my  feet, 
I   overlook   the  West. 

GREAT  BRITAIN. 

Flecking  the  seas  where  war  and  tempest  brew. 
And  biding  till  the  gonfalons  are  furled, 

74 


My  British  sails  have  dared   and  driven  through 
Thunders  that  shook  the  world. 

AMERICA. 

Never  so  many  millions  have  been  free, 

As  to  my  shores  have  come  from  pole  to  pole. 
A  by-word  have  I  made  of  liberty, 
In   giving   them   a   soul? 

JAPAN. 

Amid   the   warring   peoples   I,   that   slept 

And  dreamt  of  wide  dominion — confident. 
Ambitious,   urging,  conquering — have  stept 
Out  from  the  orient. 

CHINA. 

Glory  and  power  for  ages  had  been  mine, 

Until   upon  me   fell   a   sudden  night, 
Such  as  makes  beacon-star  republics  shine: 
And  my   eyes   saw   the   light. 

TURKEY. 

In  infidel  debate  on  whence  and  why. 

They  hiss  my  God,  and  know  not  whether  hale 
And  wise,  or  worn   and   withering   am  I, 
Behind  the  crimson  veil. 


75 


Great  daivns  have  shown  the  nuay, 
When   we   have   wandered. 

God,   in   the   battle   sway, 
What  have  we  squandered} 


HADLEYBURG. 

Hadleyburg  was  the  most  honest  and  upright  town  in  all 
the  region  round  about. — Mark  Twain, 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN  he  said  the  town 
Was  half  a  knave  and  half  a  clown, 
Nor  saner  than  the  law  allowed: 

With   all   its   stiff   restraints    and    prim 
Observances,   the   place,   he   vowed, 

Had  too  much  starch  in  it  for  him. 
And  kept  itself  upon  the  jump 

To  whip  the  devil  round  the  stump. 

That  crooked  souls  and  crooked  knees 

Distinguished  men  from  walking  trees. 
Was  sagely  then   and  there   agreed: 

But  bent  on  laughing  them  to  scorn 
Mad  John,   denying  them   a   creed. 

Resolved  to  stray  amid  the  corn. 
And   eavesdropping   from   stalk   to   stalk, 

To  hear  some  goblin  money  talk. 


76 


And  peeping  from  behind  a  bee, 

He  fell  into  a  reverie, 
Beholding  them  so  smugly  housed, 

And  pondered  what  would  happen  had 
Some   sudden   thunder   been   aroused! 

Thinking  of  which  the  silly  lad 
Collapsed  beside  a  brawling  brook 

And  laughed  until  the  welkin   shook. 


MY    DOG. 

TODAY  hell  chuckled  at  another  lie, 
That  gave  no  human  being  any  pain. 
Except  one  temporary  soul.     Nor  Cain 
Was  more  heart-heavy  when  he  came  to  die; 

I  branded  him  a  cur  that  by-and-bye 
Would  go  the  way  of  mongrels  and  be  slain. 
By  man  nor  God  regretted;  clear  and  plain 

Were  the  reproaches  written  in  his  eye. 

He   bridled   slightly   ere   he   slunk   away 
An  hour  ago  and  perished  in  a  bog. 

Saving  two  children  who  had  gone  astray: 
Since  when  the  sirens  sounding  through  the  fog 

Are  Gabriel  horns  that  thunder  me  to  pray. 
Or  to  be  damned  for  slandering  my  dog. 


77 


MAGDALEN. 

■QLINDED,  O  Dante,  by  love  at  first  sight, 

-■— ^   Her  face  did  yet  betray  what  beauty  meant! 

Beauty,  that  always  is  so  imminent, 
And  fugitive   and  plumed  for   sudden  flight. 

Sappho   nor  Beatrice  was   she  whose   slight, 
Frail   spirit  was   a  candle  not  yet  spent. 
Her  body,  worn  with  passion,  had  not  bent 

Nor   broken   on   the   rough  coasts  of  the   night. 

Why   did   they  look   askance?      She   was   not  wise, 
Or  worldly,  in  not  wishing  any  crown. 
Such  as  a  queen  might  covet — or  a  clown. 

Why  did  they  look  askance?     She  and  the  skies 
Were  witnesses   against  the   craven  Town, 
That  held  her  by  the  hair  lest  It  should  drown. 

OVERWORLD  TO  UNDERWORLD. 

GOD  went  to  sleep  one  day  in  quiet, 
And  had   a  dream  of  bee-folk  swarming. 
With  stingers  whetted  for  a  riot; 

His  work  so  needed  some  reforming. 

And  since  bee-folk  are  very  human. 

Both  as  to  virtues  and  to  vices, 
They  settled  down  as  man  and  woman 

Engaged   in   making  laws   and   prices. 


78 


And  some,  with  both  hands  on  the  Bible, 
Were  not  above  clandestine  sinning. 

Refraining  meanwhile,  as  a  libel. 

To  praise  the  work  from  the  beginning. 

The  healing  balm  of  better  wages 
Drew   others  to  condemn  the   revel 

And  recreations  of  the  ages, 

As  strongly  smelling  of  the  devil. 

Who  breaks  as  well  as  makes  the  laws  is 
Since  then  as  zealously  as  ever 

Resigned  to  remedy  the  causes. 
And  rock  the  cradle  of  endeavor. 

Amid  the  stress  and  strain  and  tension, 
And  rot  and  rust  and  sloth  and  shirking. 

It  baffles  human  comprehension 

How  well  the  old  machine  is  working. 

Working?     Sheer  heresy  nor  schism 
The  face  of  honest  labor  blanches. 

The  Tree?     A  spray  of  socialism 

To  kill  the  roots  and  save  the  branches? 

Each  day  a  Sabbath!     Who  would  falter 

In   sanctimony  or  in   sighing? 
Nor  hope  to  blunder  past  the  altar, 

And  plunder  heaven  without  dying? 


79 


UNDERWORLD  TO  OVERWORLD. 

GREAT  is  the  age,  so  vainly  great! 
That  strives  to  quench   and  quell   and  hew 
The  springs  and  pillars  of  the  State: 
If  greatness  knew! 

Brief   power   and   passion   so   abound 

As  to  enthrall  the  very  few, 
And   go   on   hedging  them   around. 
Who  cared  nor  knew. 

Who   rightly  reckons   any  more 

The  seasons  wherein  darkly  brew 
The   dissipations   of  the   poor, 

Who   dared   nor   knew? 

Say  who  of  them  knows   right  from  wrong! 

Or  gives   a  damn  for  me  or  you! 
Or   heeds  the   heavy   undersong! 
If  they  but  knew! 

Gray,  writhen  masses  coiled  and  curled! 

Half-hooded  eyes  that  glitter  through 
The  thunders  of  the  underworld! 

If  God  but  knew — if  God  but  knew! 


80 


ENIGMA. 

WHERE   shall   the   ant   spend   the   night, 
The  last  night  of  all? 
Or  the  bee,  or  the  bird. 

Whose   song  was   a   prayer  hardly  heeded   or  heard? 
Or  the  serpents  that  crawl, 
Panic-stricken   of   light? 
Or  the  soaring  untameable  things 
That  have  wings? 
Shall  they  fall, 
Or  abide? 
Shall  they  hide 
In  the  skull  ...  in  the  husk 
Of  the  bat-haunted  void  ...  in  the  dusk 
That  is  falling  like  fine 
Sifted    ashes    on   that   which    has    strangely    been    yours 

or  been  mine? 
Shall  the  tomb 
Be  a  quickening  womb? 
Or  worms  be  the  anchoret  ivies  that  twine 
In  the  hair  of  a  friend. 
Loved    and    lost. 
At  what  cost, 
In  the  end? 

Answer  and  say. 

As  one  may. 

That  the  riddle  is  slight. 


81 


But  in  sight 

Of  the   ultimate   day, 

On  the  eve  of  the  night, 

Shall  the  jungles  be  gay? 

Shall  they  thrill  at  the  stem? 

Shall  the  roar  in  them  be  one  of  fright? 

Or   the   trumpeting  thunders   in   them 

Be  a  plea  for  the  light 

Fading  out  of  the   sky? 

Shall  the  stars,  that  were  once  traveled  by, 

Flicker   high. 

Blown  by  winds,  each  of  them  but  the  sigh 

And  regret  of  a  god? 

Or   shall  heavily  nod 

Every  head, 

Weighted  down  by  the  ominous  dread? 

Having  loved,  having  died 

Glorified, 

Shall  man,  on  the  anvil,  have  quailed 

At  the  frost  in  the  fire. 

And   God!   to  the   dark  be   resigned. 

When  the  last  spark  of  hope 

He    could   find. 

Shall  be  ashen — and  nothing  have  scope. 

Or  escape  from  the  doom  of  desire 

For  the   light  that  had   failed. 

In  a  world  gone  to  bed? 


82 


THE   HOSPITAL 
I. 

APPROACHING    near    and    nearer    now   the    oM, 
Inexorable  tyranny  of  dread 
Assails  the  soul.     Death  smiles  and  counts  the  cOid, 
Clear  stars  that  thrill  and  shudder  overhead. 

II. 

The  pouring  darkness  seems  to  close  around 
Another  world  forever.     Something  calls 

Across  an  age  of  silence — and  the  sound 
Is  dying,  dying  slowly  down  the  halls. 

III. 

She  stands  with  eyes  adread  and  watches  them 

Prepare   the  table — sees  them  place  the  cone 

Upon  the  smooth  white  marble,  clean  and  chill. 

Receding  voices  hover  here  and  there. 

And  die  away  in  calm.     The  surgeons  wait 

With  quiet  confidence.     Already  cuts 

The  sudden  menace  of  the  glittering  blades; 

And  stealthy  as  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 

The  opiate  is  creeping  on  the  brain. 

O   cool,   delicious   languidness  .  .  .  such   as 

The  leaves  must  feel  beneath  the  early  rain 

Of  April  .  .  .  and  the  gasping  spirit  falls 

Into  the  yawning  anaesthetic  night. 


83 


IV. 
Drenched  and  submerged,  the  senses  grope  and  swim 

Up  from  oblivion:  a  second  birth 
Among  the   living  magnifies   the   dim 

Magnificence  and  glory  of  the  earth. 

V. 

So  now  they  say  the  end  is  very  near; 

The  feeble  pulse  still  flutters  with  the  same 
Dim  human  fire — and  one  may  almost  hear 

The  Moving  Finger  searching  for  the  name. 

VI. 

Once  more  the  smell  of  earth  and  rich  warm  wood, 

With  rain  and  air  and  sunshine,  as  of  yore. 
Wayfaring  in  the  hand  of  God,  where  all  is  good, 
Once  more. 

ENCOUNTER 

I  MET  my  dead   self  on  the   street, 
And    we    both    bowed, 
As  stfangers  do  who  would  not  greet 
Dead   men    aloud. 

Startled  ...  we  passed  .  .  .  with  ghostly  eyes. 

Condemned   to   stare. 
Not  having  time   to   recognize 

Each  other  there. 


84 


Reflected   in   dull   eyes,   that   were 

The   eyes   of   Spring, 
Autumn  he   saw  .  .  .  in  me  .  .  .  the   blur 

Of  withering: 

Bay  leaves  ...  he  saw  .  .  .  that  might  have  been 

Less  sere  and  brown. 
And  hope  ...  an  ember  smoking  in 

The  dream  burned  down. 

Fancy  the  soul  of  Caliban, 

Ashen  desire. 
Virgin  of  any  breeze  to  fan 
;    The    sunken   fire! 

Around  us  many  in  the  throng, 

With  ghostly  tread. 
Were   strangely   spirited    along. 

As    are   the   dead. 

Faces  in  legion  bore  no  sign 

Of  having  found 
Beauty  nor  anything  divine, 

In  sight  or  sound. 

Had  but  to  them   some  word   revealed 

That   life    and    land, 
In  a  new  world,  so  long  concealed. 

Were  near  at  hand! 


85 


.  .  .  God  has  mute   spies — and   one  of  them, 

In  youth  arrayed, 
Could  find  no  language  to  condemn 

The   trust   betrayed. 

*         *  * 

I  met  my  dead  self  on  the  street, 

And   we   both   bowed. 
As  strangers  do  who  would  not  greet 

Dead  men  aloud. 


ITINERARY. 


TO 


WILLIAM  CANTON. 


87 


INVOCATION. 

CONJURE   nothing   else  to   darken 
The  already  cloudy  passes; 
Vocal  in  the  thunders,  harken 
To  the  gospel  of  the  grasses! 

Reedy  tongues  and  eery  voices, 
Hushed  amid  the  daily  drudging, 

Say  that  long  life  to  the  naiads 
Still  is  hardly  ivorth  begrudging: 

Say  that  Time  and  Change  have  taken 
Grace  and  beauty   much   as  pillage, 

Leaving  sense  and  soul  forsaken 
As  a  vjorld'forgotten  village. 

Ravaged  by  the  vandal  strollers 
Is  the  garden-close  of  beauty, 

Where  the  flovjer  of  truth  once  grevo  in 
Stately  faith  voith  love  and  duty. 

Why  not  just  believe  in  fairies? 
Or  that  something  still  discloses 


89 


Wonders  ivrought  ^wherever  there  is 
Grass  or  star  or  grace  of  rosesf 

Say  nor  sing  that  grief  comes  never 
Until  pleasure  has  departed^ 

Nor  the  dusk  to  any  forest 
But  a  bird  dies  broken-hearted. 


STAGELAND. 
I. 

UPON  a  stage  as  ghostly  near 
And   real   as  you   and   I, 
With  now  a  smile  and  then  a  tear, 
The   ages   idle   by. 

II. 

For  grudging  fame  or  drudging  shame, 

The  strolling  company 
Is   masquerading   in   the    same 

Old  human  comedy. 

III. 

Anon  the   Critic  seems  to  gauge 

Performers  by  the  way 
Their  predecessors  on   the   stage 

Did  honor  to  the  play. 


90 


IV. 

By  night  a  throng  of  starry  eyes 

Is  crowded  in  the  hall, 
Endeavoring  to   realize 

The  meaning  of  it  all. 

V. 

Amid   the   waiting   and   suspense, 

Does    anybody    know 
That  many  in  the  audience 

Were  players  long  ago? 

VI. 

Rehearsing  rumors  in  the  wings 
Since  Eve  and   Adam   sinned. 

Was  Eden  haunted  by  the  things 
They  whisper  in  the  wind? 

ON  PATROL. 

I   LOAF  and  inmte   my  soul. 
How  curioUsf    Hoiv  real! 
Underfoot  the  divine  soil — 

Overhead  the  sun. — Leaves  of  Grass. 

I   reckon  it  a  luxury. 

Such   as  the   sky. 
To   be   here   at  the   door   and   see 

Him  idle  by. 


91 


So  slowly  does  he  come  and  go 

Around  and  round ; 
A  comfort  it  would  be  to  know 

Where  he  is  bound. 

An   optimist   beyond    a   doubt, 

Whose   faith  inspires, 
But  counsels   reticence   about 

His  own  desires. 

Contrives   to   loiter   and   explore 

From   day  to   day, 
Observing  wonders  more   and  more 

Along  the  way — 

Grass  and  the  sun,  the  moon,  a  star, 

A  human  face. 
Becoming   so   familiar 

In  every  place. 

I  marvel  to  myself  that  he 

Has   ever  grown 
Engrossed  in  them — he  seems  to  be 

Mostly    alone. 

By   day   he   hears   the    shouts    and    cries 

That  fill   the   town 
With  stress  and  thunder,   as  the  eyes 

Go  up   and   down. 


92 


But  dark  and  devious  are  his  ways. 

Who  ever  heard 
A   secret   when    a   fellow   says 

Hardly   a   word? 

Droll  as  a  mummy  on  the  Nile, 

That   dumbly   thinks 
Enough   to   petrify   a   smile 

Upon    a    Sphinx. 

As  though   awaiting  tardy  news, 

Day  in   and   out. 
Haunting  the  busy  avenues, 

He   strolls   about, 

Soliciting  a  word,  a  glance. 

Or  just  the  hand 
Of  an  old  crony  who  perchance 

May   understand 

The  sudden  touch  of  loneliness 

That  comes  again 
Amid  the  shouting  and  the  press 

Of  many  men. 

They  look  at  him   askance — heigh-ho! 

His  purse  is  slim; 
And  few  have  leisure  to  bestow 

Or   waste   on   him. 


Lacking  is  he  in  much — and  still 

He  makes  ends  meet. 
His  presence  in  the  autumn  chill 

Has  warmed   the   street. 

Ay,   and   moreover,  what  he  had 

To  give  away. 
Would  hardly  keep  a  cherub  clad, 

Observers  say. 

Is  he  oblivious  of  that 

Inquiring   gaze 
That  turns  to  disapproval  at 

His  idle  ways? 

His   fool   philosophy  is  just 

The  sort  to  give 
An  arrant  wanderer  who  must 

Have  time  to  live. 

Securities   nor   any   land 

Has  he  at  all; 
Nothing  for  payment  on  demand 

His   own   to  call. 

Wherefore    he    is    particular 

To  recommend 
Another  course  as  better  far 

To   comprehend 

94 


Than  such  a  one  as  he  pursues; 

Because  you  might 
Be  with  him  day  by  day — and  lose 

Him  in  the  night. 

Has  such  aversion  to  a   stir! 

The  dogs  of  war 
Have  habits  that  the  common  cur 

Is  noted  for. 

War — is  it  aught  but  selfishness 

And   greed   gone   mad? 
Its  hungry  body  in  a   dress 

Of   nettles   clad. 

Has  conflict  any  noble  end, 

Save  as  the  spark 
That  flashes  and  reveals  a  friend? 

Dawn  after  dark. 

Meanwhile,  in  seeking  liberty, 

He  finds  no  home 
Commodious    as    having   free 

Expanse  to  roam. 

Asks  nothing  else.     He   is,   or   seems, 

So  far   away 
From  all  the  customary  themes 

Of    every    day. 

95 


Appearing   usually   above 

Familiar 
Surroundings  as  acquaintance  of 

Another  star. 

On  speaking  terms  with  Jupiter, 

One   might  suppose; 
And   Venus?  intimate  with  her 

As  with  a  rose. 

The  planets  to  him  certainly  ' 

Are  populous, 
As  nether  regions  of  the  sea 

Appear  to  us. 

Acquainted  with  much  goblin  lore 

Is  he  withal. 
And  sh!  may  have  forgotten  more 

Than  some  recall. 

To  him  no  Sphinx  or  Pyramid 

Can  be  so  old 
But  that  the  secrets  in  them  hid 

Shall  yet  be  told. 

(Is  one  to  arrogance  inclined. 

Who  would  but  know 
What  the  Creator  had  in  mind 

Ages    ago?) 

96 


His  quests  in   search  of  knowledge   are 

Astonishing ; 
Truth,  like  a  candle,  shining  far 

In  everything — 

Glimmering,   luring   him   along 

From    dread    to    dread, 
While  the  fixed  stars  of  right  and  wrong 

Burn   overhead. 

Hence  bear  with  me  a  moment  more; 

Or  better  still, 
Come  in  the  house  and  shut  the  door: 

They  judge  him  ill. 

And    at  his   habits   roll   their   eyes, 

The  neighbors  here. 
Who  deem  him  something  less  than  wise 

And  more  than  queer. 

The  secret  passions  and  the  surge 

Of   lust   acquire 
Divine  momentum   in  the   urge 

Of  heart's  desire. 

Nothing  that  does   a  human  wrong 

Is  less  divine. 
How  deeply  wounded  are  the  strong, 

Who    show    no    sign! 


97 


Strength  is  the   duty   of  the   oak, 

As  of  the  dike. 
The  city  and  the  forest  folk 

Are  much  alike. 

Among  them  hardly  has  been  seen 

Or  found   the   mark 
Of  difference  that  lies  between 

The   skin   and   bark.  .  .  . 

Such  thoughts  of  course   are  quite  enough 

To  queer  a  saint. 
His  Pan  is  something  much  too  rough 

To  carve  or  paint; 

Is  something  such  as  one  may  seek 

And  find  in  trees, 
Half  Dutch  or  Spanish,  and  half  Greek 

Or  Japanese. 

Foolish?     When  April  comes  around 

To  his   abode, 
This  fellow  feels  in  duty  bound 

To  take  the  road: 

But  meanwhile  rummages  the  town. 

Remains   a   boy, 
And  turns  traditions   upside   down 

In  search  of  joy: 


98 


And  idolizes  every  child 

Within  his  ken, 
Albeit   wholly   reconciled 

Never  again. 

I  saw  him  only  yesterday, 

Shred-worn   and   thin 
With  pity  and  passion — men  say 

Looking  like   sin. 

But  that,  sir,  can  that  be  the  word 

Of  the  right  ring? 
His  heart  was   as  that  of   a  bird 

With  a  broken  wing. 

So  has  he  grown  to  be   a   friend; 

In  time  of  need. 
Ready  to  challenge  and  defend 

With  word  or  deed. 

A  wayfarer  so  valiant  gay 

Can  be  a  boon 
Companion    any    idle    day 

Or  hour  in  June. 

When   all   the   drowsy   purple   land 

Is   full   of   sun, 
His  hope  is  yet  to  understand 

Thy  ivill  he  done. 

99 


Content  to  win,  resigned  to  lose, 

Yet  on  release, 
To    find,    beyond    the    avenues. 

The   ways   of   peace. 

DERELICT. 

I  STRAY  at  ease  from  street  to  street, 
Imposing  on  the  town; 
Contented   with   enough   to   eat 

And  just  enough   renown 
To  satisfy  the  public  eye, 
And    dislocate    a   frown. 

Oddly  approved,  on  every  hand. 

Is  such  fantastic  strife. 
That  I  have  come  to  understand. 

While  dancing  to  the  fife. 
The  comedy,  the  greatness  and 

The  littleness  of  life. 

My  clothes  may  claim  to  be  akin 

To   cousin-german   shreds; 
And  often  chalkily  the  skin 

Shows  through  the  latticed  threads; 
Seeing  success   is  more  or  less 

A  game  of  tails  or  heads. 

Which  makes  me  wonder  just  how  much 
My  fault  it  was  to  leave 

100 ' 


The  road  and  fall  in  love  and  clutch 

An   angel   by   the   sleeve. 
But  all  the  same  my  purse  became 

A  thing  an  elf  could  heave. 


Straightway  my  course  was  toward  the  last 

Resort  of  poverty; 
Sickness  and  debt  came  crowding  fast, 

And  I  went  on  a  spree, 
Cursing  the  present  and  the  past 

And   the   lean  years   to   be; 


Cursing  the  woman  and  the  man 

Who  had  begot  me  poor; 
Cursing  the  heavy  iron  ban 

Of   poverty   the   more 
Because,   by   chance   or   circumstance. 

My  drift  was  low  and  lower. 


And  she,  the  Missis,  fell  away. 

Flickering  like   a  flame. 
And   dwindled   slowly  day  by  day. 

Until   the   kiddie  came 
And  bruised  our  souls  for  that  his  gray 

Outlook  would  be  the  same. 

101 


On  me  a  thieving  passion  stole; 

Thinking  perhaps  to  save 
The  only  one  in  all  this  whole 

Creation  who  forgave 
The  little  sin  of  nature  in 

A   somewhat  feeble   slave. 

She  died.     And   God  seems  more  and  more 

Remote  since  then  to  praise. 
Being  numb  and  weary  and  so  sore 

In  very  many  ways, 
My  will  remains  but  to  deplore 

The  sad  or  happy  days. 

And  still  the  moments  slip  and  slide 

From  winter  into  spring; 
And  foam  upon  the  countryside 

Is  breaking  when  I  bring 
Across  the  mart  a  foolish  heart 

To  hear  the  thrushes  sing. 

As  darkness  deepens  on  the  town 

Of  carriages  and  cars, 
And   roaring  thoroughfares  that  drown 

The  birds — their  happy  bars, 
I  go  to  find  a  bed  far  down 

Under   the   quiet   stars. 

102 


BUMBLE  BEE. 
An  April  Reckoning, 

SINCE  Jason  and  Magellan 
Or  Raleigh  made  a  stir, 
Was  ever  such  a  felon 
And  sheer  adventurer! 

Resolved  to   reconnoitre, 

Ere  May   shall   come   to   pass, 

Sealed  orders  bid  him  loiter 
About  the  flowerless  grass. 

By  an  instinct  unerring. 

He   shapes   his  course   to   hear 
The  soft  and   sudden  stirring 

That   strikes   no    mortal    ear. 

His  raids   across  the  border 
He  plans  as  one  inspired. 

Nor  ponders  on  the  order 
And  energy  required. 

Wise?     A   more   knowing    rover 
Cocks  eye   on   land   nor   sea! 

The  fourth  leaf  on  the  clover 
He  deems  no  rarity. 

103 


His  decalogue  imposes 

No   promises  to  keep, 
Made  ere  the  great  red  roses 

Had  wakened  from  their  sleep; 

Made  ere  the  first  field  daisies 
Grew  wide-eyed  wondering 

To  see  that  which  amazes 
Narcissus  in  the  spring. 

Outbound   to   raise   a   rumpus, 
He  drones  a  rumbling  song, 

Nor  boxes  any  compass, 
Nor  recks  of  right  and  wrong. 

A  rough  rogue  of  a  fellow, 
Half   fickle,   half   sincere. 

Withal  may  reach  the  yellow 
Seas  and   across  them  steer — 

And  find  his  sins  forgiven. 
At  anchor  where  the  rills 

Flow  honey  in   a  heaven 
Of  golden   daffodils. 


104 


TRAVEL. 

{Ante  Bellum,) 

I  WENT  to  Europe,  said  my  friend, 
Expecting  wonders  rare 
To   open   vistas   without   end. 
And  lay  the  future  bare. 

Paris,  of  course,  would  be  in  style; 

And   Berlin,   London,  Rome, 
Would  show  me  something  more  worth  while 

Than  anything  at  home. 

And  then  to  hear  them  cheer  a  crown, 

Or  praise   some   rusty  thing 
That   the   dark    ages   handed    down. 

Was — was   astonishing. 


iu5 


SEA   SPRAY  AND  WOOD   WINDS. 


EDWARD  J.  WHEELER 


107 


FROM    AN    ATLANTIC   WINDOW. 

MY  window  looks  upon  the  sea, 
Where  white  sails  hover  and  appear 
Like  gulls  that  idly  float  and  veer, 
As   in    a   vision   quietly. 
The   sun   has   dwindled   to   a  beam, 
Going  behind  the  Camden  hill, 
And  vanishes:  the  sea  is  still, 
As    in    a    dream. 

Above,  the  trailing  galaxies 

Frame  the  full  moon  that  comes  to  gild 

The   sea   graves  where  the  wrecks   are   stilled, 
And   are  one  with  the  silences. 
On  worn   and  wasted  frontiers  dwell 

War   echoes — dying,   dying  down. 

In  hollow  rumors  of  renown, 
As  in  a  shell. 

Night:  and  the  sea-marks  faintly  shine. 
The  gulls  are  gone,  the  sails  are  furled ; 
And  rocking  is  the  drowsy  world, 


109 


Cradled  in  dreams  and  airs  divine. 
Night:  and  the  stars  resume  control, 

And  patiently  their  vigils  keep, 

Till  weary  hopes  have  gone  to  sleep, 
As  in  a  soul. 

EPHEMERON. 

THERE  was  a  famous  city  long  ago. 
With  sun-bright  wharves  and  streets  that  nu  »  •   by 
noon 
Have  emptied  and  grown  still:  and  there  are  no 

Familiar  voices  mingling  with  the  croon 

Of  rocking  seas  and  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 

Droning  and  chanting  a  continual  rune. 

THE  HUNT. 

HARKEN  the  hounds  on  the  waters  tonight. 
Baying  the  stars  as  they  hurry  and  flee! 
Stirring  remembrance  and  blurring  delight, 
Triumphs   the   trumpeting   sea. 

Gale  upon  gale  rises  foaming  and  fills 

Sail  after  sail  sweeping  into  the  lee; 
While   in   the   darkness,   now   calling   the   hills, 

God  goads  the  galloping  sea. 


110 


AT  THE  WILL  OF  THE  MOON. 

JOY  has  come  with  a  word  from  the  sea, 
And  has  brought  to  my  cabin  door 
A  hope  for  the  dream,  and  one  more 
When  the  dream  is  a  memory. 

Joy  has  gone  .  .  .  and  red  leaves  are  astir; 

Ay — and  gone  like  an  ebbing  thing. 

Is   all  of  the  glory  of   Spring, 
That  can  only  return  with  Her. 


OH!   NOT  THE  MOON. 

OH!  not  the  moon,  nor  forest  minstrelsy, 
Conjures  and  stirs  the  clear,  shy  voice  of  Song; 
Nor  all  the  thunders  of  the  clarion  sea. 

Even  as  yonder  dim,  far,  heart-loud  thundering  human 
throng. 


ON   CHATHAM  BEACH. 

SOFTLY   the    gathering    shadows    finger    and    release 
Star  after  silver  star — and  with  a  crimson  kiss, 
Warmly  the  molten  moon  burns  down  the  dreaming  seas. 
Dear   God!    what  heaping   thunders   have   been   spent 
for  this! 


Ill 


WAR. 

CHARGE  upon  thundering  charge  an  army  sweeps 
To  crimson  victory  beneath  the  rain 
Of   storming  cannon,   and   a  nation   leaps 
To  glory — scarred  with  curses  of  the  slain. 

THE  DUEL. 

OSONG  that  ends  before  it  has  been   sung! 
And  theme  that  breaks  before  the  tale  is  told! 
When  soul  and  body — one  so  gray  and  old, 
Stabs  one  so  hale  and  young! 

VIGIL. 

SEARCHING  the  seasons  for  a   secret  presence,  I 
Must  watch  and  wait: 
She  may  come  late, 

She  may  be  passing  by. 

As  the  wind  does  viewlessly: 
And   such  is  fate. 

A   CHARACTER. 

THEY   said — and   it  was   credible — the  whole 
Hot  host  of  hell  was  clamoring  to   see 
One   mutinous,   indomitable   soul 
Duel  with   destiny. 


112 


OUBLIETTE. 

THINK  how  the  felon  in  his  cell 
Must  love  the  smallest  thing  .  .  . 
The  fly,  the  spider!     God!   how  well 
He  knows  the  human  sting! 


LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

Love. — I  have  known  all  worth  knowing,  and  have  wept, 
And  wondered  what  to  give  worth  giving  more, 
And  been  betrayed  .  .  .  and  with  my  tears  have 
slept. 
Till  life  again  came  knocking  at  the  door. 

Life.  —  I  have  made  merry,  and  much  zest  have  found, 
And  celebrated,  duelling  with  lust, 
And    relished    love  .  .  .  and    shuddered    at    the 
sound, 
As  of  hearts  breaking  .  .  .  crumbling  into  dust. 


RENUNCIATION. 

LOVE  built  a  house  and  strove  with  might  to  weave 
Something  that  faded  and  was  hardly  more 
Than  hieroglyph.     Then  sadly  taking  leave. 

Love  said  good-bye  to  hope — and  shut  the  door. 


113 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 
T7ACANT?     The    house    is   filled    with    vacant    eyes; 

V       Is  like  a  grave  that  leaks  in  sudden  showers. 
Outside — the  garden,  under  dripping  skies, 
Is  filled  with  green   and   rusty  iron   flowers. 

MORS    OMNIBUS  COMMUNIS. 

HERE  in  the  sun,  warm  winds  and  waving  grass 
Are  full  of  sighs  and  whispers.    One  by  one, 
With  solemn  faces,  men  and  women  pass, 
Here  in  the  sun. 

SPRING  SONG. 

SOFTLY  at  dawn  a  whisper  stole 
Down  from  the  Green  House  on  the  Hill, 
Enchanting  many  a  ghostly  bole 
And   wood-song  with  the    ancient   thrill. 

Gossiping  on  the  country-side. 

Spring  and  the  wandering  breezes  say 
God  has  thrown  Heaven  open  wide. 

And  let  the  thrushes  out  today. 

SERENADE. 

THE  Moon  puts  on  her  silver  veil 
And  shawl  of  lace:  and  with  far  lutes 


114 


And  violins  in  many  a  dale, 

The  thrushes  blow  their  woodland   flutes. 

Quickened  by  many  a  ghostly  cheer, 
Under  the  Moon  the  forest  heaves 

And   sways  with  ecstasy  to  hear 
The   eery  laughter  of  the  leaves. 

CANTICLE. 

DEVOUTLY  worshiping  the  oak. 
Wherein  the  barred   owl   stares, 
The  little  feathered  forest  folk 
Are  praying  sleepy  prayers. 

Praying  the  summer  to  be  long 

And   drowsy   to   the   end, 
And  daily  full  of  sun  and  song, 

That  broken  hopes  may  mend. 

Praying  the  golden   age  to   stay 

Until   the   whip-poor-will 
Appoints   a  windy  moving  day. 

And    hurries    from    the    hill. 

AUTUMN  SONG. 

ONCE  more  the  crimson   rumor 
Fills  the  forest  and  the  town; 
And  the  green  fires  of  summer 
Are  burning — burning  down. 


115 


Oh,  the  green  fires  of  summer 

Are  burning  down  once  morel 
And  my  heart  is  in  the  ashes 

On  the  forest  floor. 

INTERLUDE. 

SINCE  yesterday  has  been  no  word, 
Nor  voice  of  anything 
To  thrill  the  forest;  and  no  bird 
Has  any  heart  to  sing. 

Since  yesterday  has  been  no  track 

Of  Pan,   nor   any  power 
To  lure  the  gypsy  summer  back, 

And  fool  a  single  flower. 

REQUIESCAT 

GRAY  are  the  sentry  leaves  and  thinned 
That  whisper  at  my  cabin  door. 
Sighing  and  mourning  as  the  wind 
Worries  and  walks  the  forest  floor. 

O    leaves,    O    leaves    that   find   no   voice 
In  the  white  silence  of  the  snows. 

To  bid  the  crimson  woods  rejoice, 
Or  wake  the  wonder  of  the  rose! 

116 


FANCY   FIELDS. 

TO 

RICHARD    LE    GALLIENNE. 


117 


THE  MAKING  OF  SPRING. 

UPON  a  day  in  April 
There  came  a  sudden  hush- 
The  silence  of  the  forest, 
Expectant  of  a  thrush. 

Hardly  an  aspen  quivered, 

Until  a  breeze  and  rill 
Were  startled  by  the  rumor 

Of  daisies  on   the  hill. 

Sudden — a   gust   of   passion 

Developed   in  the   air. 
As  though  the  Little  People 

Were  thronging  everywhere. 

And  lo!  the  spell  that  deepened 
On  larch  and  pine  and  fir, 

Was   broken.     In   the   maple, 
The  sap  began  to  stir. 


119 


Softly  the  doors  of  silence 
Were   opened ;   and   set   free, 

Were  voices  full  of  wilding, 
Prophetic  mystery. 

Had  some  world  been  discovered? 

Or   had   Pan   misbehaved? 
Or  was  it  but  a  nation 

That  needed   to   be   saved? 

The   thrush  came   with   a   question. 

Adventurous  to  find 
Some  remnants  of  the  wonder 

That  God  had  left  behind. 


THE  GARDEN   CINDERELLA. 

I  THINK  the  hermit  thrush  had  spread 
The  tidings  with  a  vocal  wand, 
As  dawn  came  with  a  dappled  tread 
So   softly  on  the  garden  land. 

Souls  of  the  roses  one  by  one 
Went  palely  through  the  garden  skies. 

Like  ashes  sifting  from  the  sun. 
Or  the  stray  ruins  of  butterflies 


X20 


And  with  a  rosy  sisterhood 

Of  blossoms  dreaming  in  the  dawn, 

Demurely  nodded  one  that  stood 
Behind  a  dewy  curtain  drawn. 

She  dreamt  her  dreams,  and  never  gazed 
Beyond  the  curtain,  it  is  told, 

Until  the  Twilight  came  and  raised 
A  wondering  little  face  of  gold. 

It  may  have  been  a  fairy  face 

Thrilling  the  garden  with  a  smile. 

Or  just  a  primrose  sent  to  grace 
The  darkness  for  a  little  while: 

Fleeing   perhaps    a    nunnery 

Of  blossoms   very   softly   furled, 

Confessing  her  desire  to  see 
The  beauty  of  the  garden  world. 

Envoy 

Veiled  Princess!     In  the  morrow   land 
That  gathers  nearer  hour  by  hour, 

Beneath  the  Secret  Shadow  Hand, 
Is  any  face  or  any  flower? 

121 


OAK  LORE. 

I  WENT   into   the   Wood 
Of  the  Green  Mystery, 
And  sought  for  the  secret 
Abode  of  Hidden  Glee. 
On   a  tomb  it  was  written 

That  ye  ivho   seek  shall  find, 
Though  the  oivl  hwue  vision. 
Or  the  bat  be  blind, 

I  went  into  the  Wood 

Of  the  Green  Mystery, 
And  felt  for  the  secret 

Repose  of  every  tree. 
Sealed  in  them  was  the  message 

That  ye  ^who  strive  are  sure 
Of  desire  that  only 

Prevails  to   endure. 

EVENING. 

THERE  is  only  a  star  in  the  sky; 
On  the  wandering  waters  the  breeze 
Dies  away  in  the  ghost  of  a  sigh. 

Over  meadow  and  marsh  comes  the  cheep 

Of  the  frog:  and  adream  in  the  trees 
Are  the  wren   and   the   robin   asleep. 

122 


Now  rises  the  moon  like  a  frail 

Floating  bubble  just  over  the  hill, 
At  the  far  keening  call  of  the  quail. 

All  the  dark  brooding  forest  is  still, 

Save  the  aspen  so  shyly  astir, 
Or  the  hidden  and  hesitant  rill. 

Then  the  moon  slowly  wanes,  and  the  gray 

Forest  deepens  as  softly  as  night, 
And  the  rivulet  dreams  on  its  way. 


AN  UMBEL  FOR  SPRING. 

NEARER  now   and   ever   nearer, 
Wing   to    wing. 
Come   the   swallows   with   a   clearer 
Twittering. 
Everything 
Wakes   and  bourgeons   as  though   straying 
In  adventure,  hoping,  saying 
It  is  Spring. 

Breezy   ripples   dance    and   quiver 
Riotously   on    the    river. 

Skipping 
Deftly  now  and  tripping 

Hand  in  hand, 
Over  sea   and  over  land 

123 


Gather  oaf  and   elf  and  fairy, 
Shyly   vigilant   and   wary. 

Of  the  sere 
Sentry  leaves  and  bastion  grasses, 
As  the  season  blithely  passes 

Down  the  year. 

Thronging  couriers  of  the  air 

Stir  and  start  and  would  be  going. 

Eery   trumpets,    softly   blowing 

Everywhere, 
Echo   faintly   and   declare. 

Surely,   surely 
It  is  April   so  demurely 
Tipping    every   voice    and    tossing 
Flowery  purses   as  of  old. 
Spilling   minted   marigold 
As  a  fee  at  every  crossing. 

Quietly  the   hosts   of  June 
Strike  their  dewy  southern  tents, 
Delicate    with    woven    scents; 

Breaking    camp 

With   muted   tramp; 
Marching  nearer  past  the  gleaming, 
Idle   rivers   southward   dreaming — 

Weird   and  quaintly, 

Very  faintly 
Chanting  unto   Spring 
Songs  that  men  may  never  sing. 
124 


Buds   are  boldly  peeping  out 
Of  the   tents   now   pitched   about 

In   the   grasses; 
Feeling   safe    and    very    sure 
Of   themselves — and    so    secure 
That  the   reckless  ones  are  finely 
Gossiping:    and    so    divinely 

Is  it  done 
That  the  breezes  guard  the  passes 

In  the  sun. 

Happy,  happy  ever  after 

Are  the  shout  and  lyric  laughter 

Echoing 
Over  hill  and  rill  and  valley, 
With  the  rout  and  rush  and  rally 

Of  the  Spring. 

Never   any  living  thing 
In  the  mad  and  merry  season 
But  rejoices  beyond   reason: 
Cows  are  lowing; 
Waters   flowing; 
Lambs  are  bleating; 
Birds   are   greeting; 
Everything  that  has  a  voice  is 
In   the   chorus   and    rejoices 
In  the  mere  delight  of  giving 
Pleasure  and  in  simply  living. 

125 


Hush   and  heat 
Yonder  mighty  army  stirring 

In  the  grasses; 

Cheer    on    cheer 
Rises  as  the  season  passes 

Sheer 
Overhead    on    pinions   whirring 

Far    and    near, 
Winging,    winging,    winging    down    the    year. 


APOTHEOSIS. 

LAST  night  the  world  died. 
How    the    imps    skurried! 
Some   souls   were    enskied ; 
Some   of   them  buried. 

Others   who   were   as   tall 
And   strong   as   seven. 

To  the   surprise   of   all, 
Fell  short  of  heaven. 

Many  who   stormed   the  gate. 

Bent  on  acquiring 
Glory   at   any   rate. 

Soon   began  tiring. 

126 


Some  took  the  time  to   ring, 
And   were    anointed. 

How  many  hurrying 
Were  disappointed! 


THE  SISTERS. 

NIGHT,   in   the   chambered   east, 
Sits  with  Dawn   at  the  door. 
Dropped    from    her    golden    feast, 
Star-crumbs   scatter   the    floor. 

Mice   from   behind    the   sun 

Patter  along  the  sky; 
Nibbling  the  crumbs  they  run, 

Touching  with  footprints  shy. 

Echoes   of   purring    sound 

Over  the  world  below; 
Nothing  more  to  be  found. 

Scamper — away  they  go! 

Dawn,  in  the  chambered  east. 
Rises:   and  through  the   door. 

Night  has  gone  from  the  feast 
Over  an  azure  floor. 

127 


VALE. 

A  N  idle  wayfarer y  it  may  he  said, 
-*■  ■*•    Did  briefly  reverence  the  roadside  flowers, 
Wherein  the  roses  burned  from  'white  to  red, 
Crumbling  in  crimson  showers. 

And  on  the  upward  and  the  downward  slopes 

Are  embers  now  of  many  a  cheerful  fire. 
Hardly  alive  beneath  the  smoldering  hopes 
And  ashes  of  desire. 

So,   at  the   quiet  going  out   of  day, 

And  as  the  little   brooks  at  vespers   tell 
Their  pebbly  rosaries — comes  one  to  say 
Good-bye  and  wish  you  well. 


128 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFOENIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


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■-^ 


8  192C 


wnv  1  1920 
'^PR   15   19?, 

OCT   ^^  ^^-^^ 


507n-7,'16 


.YB  47296 


